


Human

by benaddictedtosherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, F/M, Friends to Lovers, I suck at tagging, Infidelity, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benaddictedtosherlock/pseuds/benaddictedtosherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m starting to think letting you into my home wasn’t such a good idea.”<br/>“Oh it was probably the worst thing you’ve ever done.” There was a moment’s pause before he spoke again. “Do you regret it?”<br/>“Not one bit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Strange Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is an idea I've had for a while and decided I was going to finally try and get written down. Feedback would be great, but just you reading is appreciated. All mistakes are mine, and I own no characters. Enjoy!
> 
> Title Inspiration - "Human" by Christina Perri

Doctor John Watson pulled his coat tighter around himself as he trudged along the snow-covered pavement on his way to work. It was the night before Christmas and he'd been called in to cover the shift of some doctor who wouldn't be coming in to work. Apparently, a 'spur of the moment' decision had been made and Dr. Evans was going to spend Christmas in America with his family. John had been the third person they'd called, and the first who hadn't left London for the holidays.

John didn't pass a single person on the way to St. Bart's, but he hadn't expected to. The streets were usually quite empty at this time. It had been just after eleven when the sound of a telephone ringing awoke John and he'd been asked to come in as soon as possible... if he could. 

A nearly frozen hand pushed open the back entrance door of the hospital, and John entered the sterile prison that was his workplace. He said hello to the receptionist on duty and headed straight for the break room. There was one other person in the room, a small girl with mousy brown hair whose name always evaded John's memory. He did, however, remember that she was a pathologist, and that most pathologists didn't work night shifts. She saw John come in and a timid smile graced her shy features. John attempted to smile back, then poured himself a cup of coffee. They drank in silence, and when John finished his cup he poured himself another. 

"Looks like someone's got a long night ahead of him." John turned and looked over his shoulder at the reticent pathologist, who had yet to finish her first cup it seemed. He could feel his cheeks warming, and looked away so the pathologist girl wouldn't see him blush.

"Uh, yeah I suppose."

"You don't normally work this late do you? I think I remember seeing you around, but never this late." She had now taken a small step towards him, apparently now a bit more comfortable in his presence. John shook his head.

"I'm covering a shift for someone." John brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. "Do you normally work around this time?" She shook her head.

"Not normally. I'm... helping a friend out by being here."

"That's nice of you." John finished his coffee around the same time she did and they threw their cups into the rubbish bin at the same time. With the caffeine now starting to flow through his system, John was able to give her a genuine smile before leaving the room and starting his shift.

The next few hours passed uneventfully and John was back in his bed, sound asleep by noon. His sleep was dreamless and when he opened his eyes he woke up to a silent flat. After a substandard breakfast of coffee and toast, John returned to St. Bart's to work the shift that was actually his. He wouldn't complain, because he supposed there were worse ways to spend Christmas than working two shifts in a hospital so his colleagues could spend time with their families. For instance, he could be at home spending time with his family, which would mean him mediating trivial arguments between his parents and sister Harriet, because she'd rather be called 'Harry' and their parents were having none of that.

There was a new receptionist for John to greet, and there had been no one in the break room when he'd gone in. He didn't grab a cup of coffee, because he'd already had three cups that day, but he did grab an apple from the basket sitting beside the coffee maker. Just as he was taking a large and rather unattractive bite of the red delicious fruit, he looked up and saw the pathologist girl from earlier walk into the room, looking a bit more flustered than when John had seen her before.

"Oh, hello again," she said when she saw him. Because his mouth was still full, all John could do was smile and wave. The young woman opened her mouth and appeared to be about to speak, but was cut off by a loud, booming voice bellowing from somewhere outside the room.

"Molly!" The pathologist girl turned her head to look out the door, then turned back to John with a strained smile on her face.

"That's my cue." John nodded his head in her direction, and Molly scurried away. For some reason, John didn't think he'd ever forget her name again.

___________________________

The main difference between working on Christmas and working on New Year's was the busyness of the day. While Christmas had been rather placid, New Year's Day was quite the opposite. Every year at New Year's there was copious amounts of drinking, and as a result there were an immeasurable amount of alcohol-related injuries, including, but not limited to, those caused by car accidents and bar fights. John had spent the entirety of his shift running from patient to patient and writing prescription after prescription, all while trying to solve a dispute between his parents and his sister through a series of phone calls. By the time the end of his shift came John couldn't have been more relieved to go. He did one final round of checkups on his patients before the next doctor took over, filled out some last bits of paperwork, and was out the door at around ten pm.

With his hands shoved into his pockets John roamed the streets of London, trying to decide if he should make a quick stop to the 24 hour grocery store that was near his flat before officially heading in for the night. John liked to keep his kitchen fully stocked for experimenting, which he tended to do quite often in his spare time, and would probably spend all of tomorrow doing. John was still trying to decide when he came across another person on the pavement, a tall, dark stranger in a tattered trench coat staggering towards him.

"Excuse me sir, are you alright?" He received no response from the man other than a guttural groan, and it was then that John realized something was seriously wrong. He cautiously approached the man and placed his hands on his arms to steady him. Just one look at his handsome face and John could tell this man was under the influence of something, but he couldn't be sure of what without the proper tests. Still, it was obvious that he needed help, and John Watson always helped those in need. Not only was it his job to do so, but it was just who he was.

"Come on," he said, "let's get you to the hospital."

"No!" the man shouted, wrenching free of John's grasp. He tried to get away but John grabbed a hold of his coat and pulled him back. "Let go of me!"

"No." John said as forcefully as he could. "You need help."

"I don't need anything," the man predicated, trying once more to free himself. However, John was prepared for it and managed to hold on. "If you don't let go of me now I'll-"

"You'll what? Whatever you do if I do let you go can't be better. Who knows what kind of trouble you could get yourself into while in this state?"

"Why does it matter to you what happens to me?"

"Because..." John searched for an answer to the stranger's question but was unable to find one. "Because I just do. Now let's get you to St. Bart's."

"I can't!" John looked into the man's eyes, and when he saw the genuine fear on his features he felt his stomach drop. There was no way he could get this man to willingly go to St. Bart's, that much was clear. Still, he argued with the strung-out stranger and after a good few minutes it was somehow decided that the stranger would come with John to his house where he could at least be monitored until he was lucid.

John wasn't too keen on inviting a complete stranger into his home, but it was the only way to appease the man and keep his conscience clear. As soon as they'd gotten inside the man paced throughout John's living room for an hour straight, then threw himself onto John's couch and didn't move or speak for the next few hours. When he did speak it was only to ask where the restroom was, and after his quick trip to the loo the man returned to John's couch, closing his eyes and and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. 

"So tell me, how long have you had a cooking obsession?" he asked after several elongated minutes of silence. John stilled in his current action of flipping through a cook book and glanced up at the man lying on his couch.

"Pardon?" The stranger sighed heavily, then pushed himself up so he was sitting cross-legged on John's sofa, blue-grey eyes staring intently at him.

"I've noticed you have many medical journals and magazines scattered around your flat, as well as a medicine cabinet full of medications that most common folk wouldn't own. I'm judging that from the direction you were walking that when we met on the street you were leaving St. Bart's. Am I correct so far?"

"Quite so." The man was now quite animated and was pacing once more, talking rapidly and slurring his words a bit, as if his mouth couldn't keep up with what his brain was telling it to say.

"Right, so, it's safe to assume you are a doctor. And yet, you have a substantial amount of cookbooks on display in your flat and from what I can see here..." the man had paused in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, "you have a very well stocked kitchen that has seen quite a lot of use. Now it would be safe to assume cooking is just a hobby of yours, but that isn't the only possibility. Perhaps the medical stuff is the hobby and the cooking is the profession. Though looking at you now I can tell I was right the first time, and you are in fact a doctor with a cooking obsession."

"Well I wouldn't call it an obsession..." John muttered, tossing the book he'd been holding onto the coffee table in front of him. The strange man smirked, and his cool eyes lit up, and for a moment John forgot that this was a man he had only met today, and not known his entire life, for in that moment he felt as if he'd seen that smile a million times, and hoped to see it a million more. Content to see that the stranger had returned to a lucid state, but not yet willing to part ways, John offered for him to spend the night if he'd like. The offer was accepted almost as soon as it had been made.

"I don't suppose you would be open to us sharing a bed?" John nearly dropped the magazine he had picked up and coughed. When he looked to the stranger and saw the teasing smirk on his face, his body tensed. 

"Um-"

"Relax, I'm kidding. The sofa is fine." John nodded his head, then went to his room to retrieve a blanket and extra pillow. He sat in his armchair and watched silently as the stranger struggled to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. When an hour had passed and he hadn't stirred, John figured the stranger had fallen asleep, and so decided that it would be right for himself to so the same. If he were to be violently murdered that night by the man who could have been pretending to be sleeping on his couch, so be it. It wasn't like he had much to leave behind anyway, and at least it could be said that he died trying to help a stranger, quite an honorable death in his opinion. That was the last thought to cross John's mind before he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. 

When he awoke he next morning, only somewhat glad to actually have woken up, the stranger was gone and the flat looked exactly as it always had, save for a folded blanket resting atop a pillow on the floor in front of John's bedroom door. It was almost as if the stranger had never been there, but John knew that wasn't true. Though he hadn't left any evidence of his existence in John's flat, he'd made quite the impression on John's memory.


	2. Remember Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for any mistakes. Working without a beta here.  
> Thanks to everyone who commented/gave kudos and all that.

4 months later

By the time April rolled around John had nearly forgotten about the strange man he'd let sleep in his living room on New Year's. He had other things to focus on, like his demanding career, blossoming friendship with Molly the pathologist, and budding relationship with former appendectomy patient Mary Morstan.

John had been assigned to be her doctor for the duration of her stay at St. Bart's, and sparks had flown from the moment he walked into her room and saw her lying in the hospital bed, short blonde hair perfectly coiffed and beautiful green eyes showing no signs of pain, though John knew it must have been excruciating. John had been instantly smitten, and apparently so had she. They'd been the centre of the hospital gossip for weeks, and when they'd gone on their first date it was all anyone talked about for an entire week afterwards. John hadn't minded though, for it had been a fantastic date. He hadn't been able to keep the smile off of his face when he told Molly about it, and she had been smiling just as big.

"I'm so happy for you," she said. "You're a really nice guy, and you deserve someone like Mary." John wasn't sure what to say in response, so he settled for taking a sip of the coffee he held in his hand. Molly walked around him to throw her cup away and continued to smile at him.

"Have you arranged to meet again?" John nodded his head.

"We're going to see a movie this weekend." Molly smiled and nodded her head, and John tilted his head remembering something Molly had said about a month ago. "Why don't we double date? You can bring that guy you're always talking about." Instantly Molly's face turned right red and she stammered out a negating sentence.

"Oh, I- I'm not dating him." John saw the look on her face and figured it would be best not to pry, so he quaffed the remainder of his coffee and tossed the cup into the rubbish bin beside him. 

"Pity," he said, turning around and backing towards the door. "You should still ask him. You deserve to be as happy as I am." He turned around, nearly bumping into someone who had been standing just outside the door.

"Sorry," he said, not looking up. He shuffled out of the room before turning back to face Molly, ignoring the tall stranger whose back was turned towards him. "I'll see you later Molly!"

"Okay Doctor Watson!"

"I keep telling you, call me John." He gave Molly one last smile before turning and strolling down the hall.

____

They'd been dating for about three months when Mary was diagnosed with a severe case of endometrial cancer, and because Mary didn't come from a wealthy family, she couldn't afford the hysterectomy that would prevent the cancer from spreading to her lungs like the doctors predicted it would. If it weren't for John's becoming a part-time paramedic, there was a big possibility that Mary wouldn't have made it to their one year anniversary. He used the extra money he made to pay for Mary's life-saving operation, and he got to ride in the front of an ambulance, something he'd always wanted to do. 

There was just something about the rush of adrenaline he got while the ambulance sped to the rescue, and the action that occurred right then and there that John had come to love during his short career as a paramedic. Most people would find blaring sirens to be rather abrasive, but the sound was music to John's ears as he and his partner sped down the road to the crime scene.

"Are we almost there?" he shouted to his partner Mike, who nodded his head, eyes trained on the road as he drove, weaving through traffic. 

"Should be there in less than a minute," he said. John took in a deep breath and readied himself. When the vehicle came to a stop John and Mike both sprang into action, grabbing what they needed and rushing to the crime scene. It was an attempted murder-suicide apparently. 

The hotel was far from five star. The wallpaper was beginning to crack and he hallways stank of mildew, and the carpet was faded. John couldn't imagine why anyone would pay to stay here, but then again he'd never known what it was like to be desperate and broke, two criteria he was sure had to be met for one to even consider lodging in this dump of a hotel.

When John entered the room in which everything had taken place he saw two bodies laying on the floor, a man and a woman, both lying in pools of blood. The man seemed to be completely lifeless but the woman was still alive. As John got closer to her he saw that it was only barely, and it was obvious she wouldn't be alive for much longer. Her face and neck were covered in bruises, and the entire front other shirt was soaked in blood. Her eyes were half closed and already beginning to cloud over. John crouched beside her and brushed her strawberry blonde hair from her face and began the necessary protocols for treating stab wounds, which this woman had a substantial amount of. Though he knew this woman would no doubt be dead in minutes, he continued to speak words of encouragement to her as he worked, while Mike checked for any signs of life in the man. As John had expected, there were none. He continued to work on the woman while Mike retreated to the ambulance, for what John didn't know. 

The woman began coughing and her eyes grew wide. She raised a hand and threw it outwards, eyes focused on a door at the other side of the room. John stared down at her, confused, and she mouthed 'sorry' before her eyelids fluttered shut and she stopped breathing. With a sigh, John stood and shook his head. Mike reappeared and put a hand on his shoulder. 

"So we lost them both," he said, shrugging. "It happens. The police are almost here, and I guess they'll want the bodies to remain undisturbed, so I suppose we can leave now."

"Erm, actually..." John said, remembering what the woman had done in her final moments. "I think I should stay. I need to talk to the police about something she...did before she died."

"Oh, very well then. I'll wait here with you." John gave him a small smile and the two men walked outside. A small crowd of people had gathered, and one police car had already shown up. A young woman with curly black hair and tanned skin came up to them, wearing a scowl on her face. 

"I suppose you two are the paramedics," she said. John and Mike both nodded their heads and she took in a breath. Before she could say anything, however, and older gentleman with salt and pepper hair approached them, a subdued look on his face.

"This appears to be another Red Rum case," he said to the woman. "I've called Sherlock. This kind of stuff is right up his alley. He should be here momentarily." His eyes met John's and he tilted his head. "Not to be rude or anything, but, who are you?"

"We were the paramedics called to the scene. John here was the last one to see the woman alive and he'd like to speak with you."

"Oh really?"

"Um, yeah," John stammered. "She might have given me some information that could be of use to you."

"Ah, very well then. You can just speak to Sherlock when he gets here. I've got to go talk to the..." John didn't hear the rest of his sentence because he'd started walking off, the woman trailing behind him. John turned to look at Mike, who seemed to be nearly bursting with excitement.

"What?"

"Didn't you hear? Sherlock Holmes is going to be here! Oh, I've heard so much about him."

"Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes. He's an up and coming detective with a lot of potential. He's been really active for around six months, and they say he's got a bright future ahead of him. I'm surprised you haven't heard of him yet." John nodded and kicked at the ground with his shoe. He and Mike waited in silence until a cab pulled up to the crime scene and everyone's attention turned towards it. This Sherlock guy was some sort of celebrity in the forensic world, it seemed. John watched as a figure emerged, and his breath hitched in his throat when he got a good look at the man who exited the vehicle. Those eyes, that hair and trench coat... though the Belstaff he wore now was much nicer than the one he'd had previously. This was the mystery man he'd met over four months ago on that dreary New Year's Eve.

He took a look around at everyone, and when his eyes met John's all time seemed to stand still. John waited for some sort of acknowledgment, but none came. The man simply looked him up and down before strolling over to were the police officers were standing.

"That's him," Mike gushed, pointing at the man. "That's Sherlock Holmes."

John watched in awe as the man whose name he now knew to be Sherlock conversed with the brown eyed man and the curly haired woman, and held his breath when the man pointed in his direction. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, then walked over to where John was standing.

"So Lestrade tells me you might have some useful information." His voice was as smooth and dulcet as ever, perhaps even more so than John remembered. 

"Yes," John said, pleased with how normal his own voice sounded. "While I was trying to save her she pointed to a door on the other side of the room, and mouthed sorry. I don't know if that really means anything but I figured I'd tell someone."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied, staring vacantly into the distance. John bit his lip and sighed, thinking that he'd just made a fool of himself by thinking he could help with something like this. Then Sherlock's eyes widened and he let out an exultant sound, clapping his hands together and smiling. 

"Oh this is perfect!" He turned around to shout at who John guessed was Lestrade. "I need to see the room. I need to see the closet!" He darted off towards the entrance to the building, and John turned to Mike.

"I guess we're free to go." Just then Sherlock reappeared and stood directly in front of John.

"Feel free to stick around. Your assistance may still be required." He gave John a pointed look, then turned and dashed into the building. John turned to Mike and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Who knows how long this may take. You can go back to the hospital and I'll just take a cab or something."

"I wouldn't dare leave you here. What makes you think I'd want to get away from all this excitement?" They shared a laugh, then headed towards the ambulance to escape the cold. They waited for all of ten minutes before Sherlock and everyone else came out of the building, and John could see Sherlock's lips moving rapidly while he gesticulated, and everyone around him seemed to be hanging on his every word. He just seemed to be the sort of person who commanded all of your attention; He certainly had all of John's.

After several more moments the crowd began to disperse, and John wondered if he and Mike were meant to leave as well. He hoped not, he wanted desperately to get a word with Sherlock, and ask if he remembered him. He couldn't have forgotten him, could he? If he had, what had that look meant?

"Where is that paramedic?" he heard Sherlock's orotund voice shout from somewhere nearby. "I need to have a word with that paramedic again!" John and Mike shared a look before he opened the door and hopped out.

"If you want to leave you can," he said before closing the door. Mike seemed to be arguing with himself, so John gave him a sincere smile. "Really. I have my wallet with me and can get a cab. You need to be at work." Mike sighed and nodded his head. He buckled his seat belt and pulled away as John tottered over to Sherlock. He waited for him with his hands clasped behind his back, cold eyes trained on his face. There was no indication that he recognized John, and he could feel his heart sinking at the thought. Still, he put on a brave face and managed to meet Sherlock's firm gaze as he stood in front of him.

"You wanted to speak to me?" Sherlock glanced down and busied himself with dusting invisible lint from his person.

"Yes, I did. You see Doctor Watson, I never got the chance to thank you."

"Oh, it was no-"

"No, I mean thank you. For everything." John scrunched his face up, struggling to comprehend Sherlock's words and when the realization finally hit him it came with full force, and it took all his willpower to keep a straight face while he replied.

"You're welcome."

"I suppose you understand now why I couldn't go to St. Bart's."

"I do completely." Sherlock gave a curt nod, then stared at something past John's head. "You're secret is safe with me," John added, bringing Sherlock's attention back to himself. His lips stretched into a friendly smile and he took a step closer to Sherlock. "As long as you don't tell anyone about the cooking." A smile slowly made its way onto Sherlock's face, and John felt a strange sense of pride at being the one to have put it there. Sherlock held out a gloved hand, which John took and gave a firm shake.

"Deal." There was a brief moment of silence that passed between them, with neither of them saying a word and staring into the other's eyes, hoping the man in front of them would speak first. At least, that's what John was doing. Sherlock was the first to speak, though what he said was far from what John had been hoping to hear.

"Well, farewell Doctor Watson." He turned and left, climbing into a cab that had been waiting for him and disappearing into the night. John stood with his hand still outstretched, eyes locked on where Sherlock's had been, mouth open and ready to speak, but no sound was made. Instead, John hailed a cab of his own and ventured back to the hospital, staring out the window at the other cars they passed, wondering if Sherlock was in any of the other cabs on the road, wondering if he had just seen Sherlock Holmes for the last time, and hoping desperately that he hadn't.


	3. Hello, Doctor Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any mistakes...and, thanks for reading!

Only three weeks had passed since John's chance encounter with Sherlock Holmes at that crime scene, and already he was starting to feel like he was losing his mind. When he walked down the crowded streets of London he saw him everywhere. He was every man who happened to be wearing a trench coat, and he was every person with curly dark hair. John found himself comparing the face of every stranger to that of Sherlock's, and any man with pale skin instantly transformed into Sherlock's likeness in John's mind. Even as he walked through the halls of St. Bart's on his way to clock out for the day, John could've sworn he saw Sherlock walk into a patient's room several meters away. With his shoulders slumped he continued on, picking up his pace as to not be late for his date with Mary. 

He saw Molly on his way out of the building, and had every intention of simply waving and walking by, but when he saw her facial expression contort into one of worry he found himself rushing over to her.

"Is everything alright Molly?" She made a strange face and nodded.

"I'm fine. Is everything alright with you?" 

"What do you mean?" Molly smiled, and somehow managed to get a sentence out through her nervous tittering.

"Well you look like you've just left a funeral." John's eyes widened and his lips pursed as he stared at Molly, who simply stared back, the smile now dissolving from her features. Molly placed a comforting hand on his upper arm and tilted her head. "You know, if something's bothering you, you can tell me. You know that right?" 

"Of course I do, but I'm fine, Molly." John hoped Molly would buy into his lie, but the look she gave him showed that she wasn't. This confused John greatly, because he had always considered himself to be rather adept at keeping his true emotions hidden. Molly took in a breath and stared up at John with big brown eyes full of concern.

"John, I know you better then you'd think, and I know something's bothering you." She took a cautious step forward as she talked. "Is there something going on with Mary?" John shook his head vigorously.

"No, no, not her." He noticed the slight raising of Molly's eyebrows, and mentally cursed at his slip-up. "Nor is it any...other woman, by the way." He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers while trying to avoid Molly's scrutinizing gaze. 

"So you're having problems with...a man..." John heard no judgement in her voice, only confusion, but still he felt uneasy. 

"Not necessarily having problems. You see-" John shut his mouth, deciding not to finish his sentence for fear that it would reveal his previous associations with Sherlock Holmes, something he had successfully managed to keep a secret. Not even Mary knew that they'd ever spoken and Mike only thought they'd talked that one time at the crime scene. Unfortunately, there wasn't really a way for John to end this conversation quickly and on a good note without at least mentioning him. With a sigh of resignation, John shrugged and stared into Molly's wondering eyes.

"You see, a little while ago I met this man, and..." He took in a breath and glanced past Molly's head, searching for the right words to say. "Have you ever met someone who's so...captivating, that you find yourself just...thinking about them after they've gone? Like, though they've sort of left your life they haven't left your mind?" Molly nodded her head enthusiastically. 

"Of course. Out of sight doesn't always mean out of mind."

"Exactly!" John exclaimed, placing a hand on Molly's shoulder. He smiled at her, and she returned the gesture. "It's so relieving to find someone who understands. I mean, I've only seen Sherlock twice and-"

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, cutting John off with a puzzled expression on her face. "Do you mean Sherlock Holmes?" John immediately bit his lip and stared wide-eyed at her.

"I don't suppose there's any way you could forget I said that name." 

"Not really, no. But I won't ever bring him up." The corner of Molly's eyes crinkled slightly as she smiled at John. "Promise." John smiled back, and gave Molly's shoulder a small squeeze.

"Thanks. I've uh, got to go. I'm supposed to be meeting Mary for dinner in less than ten minutes." Molly grabbed a clip board from off of a nearby counter and began looking over it. 

"Well you better get going." John nodded and gave her shoulder a light pat before turning and leaving the hospital. He sent a text to Mary while he was in the cab apologizing for being late and promising to make up for it later. He was just receiving her reply text when he walked into the restaurant. He saw her sitting alone at a table near the front, and felt his heart skip a beat, as it always did when he laid eyes on the gorgeous blonde. He casually strolled over and plopped down across from her, giving her a warm smile as he did so.

"Hello there," he said, "I think you just texted me but I didn't read it yet." Mary's eyes had yet to leave the menu she was holding with perfectly manicured hands, but John could see the smirk on her face as she answered him.

"Oh, it was nothing important. Just, you can make up for being late by paying the check." John chuckled as he picked up his own menu.

"I was already planning on doing that, you know." The conversation flowed from there, and as usual, it came naturally and was lighthearted. An entire hour had passed before John realized he had yet to remove his coat. He did so as he listened to Mary tell him a story she had been told earlier that day concerning a relative of hers who had gone to visit America, bought a lottery ticket, and won. Apparently they were dividing half of their earnings between their favourite family members, and Mary was one of them.

"I promise as soon as I get my share I'll pay you back for everything you've done."

"Don't you dare," John said, picking up his wine glass and taking a sip. Mary drank some of her own, and smiled at him around the rim of the glass.

"Oh John," she said once she swallowed, "you're too good for me." John found himself smiling as he set his glass down on the table, eyes locking with Mary's.

"That's impossible. Nothing's too good for you." Mary gave him a small smile in return, and the evening continued from there without another word about money. After dinner, John walked Mary to her flat, and when he made it back to his own flat, the sun had long been gone from the sky. He fumbled with his keys for a moment in the darkness before managing to open the door. He closed it quietly behind him and turned on the lights, cursing rather loudly when he saw a figure sitting on his couch.

"Jesus Christ!" he shouted, pulling out his mobile phone to call the police. His hand stilled, however, when he saw just who it was who was perched on his sofa. "...Sherlock?"

"Hello, Doctor Watson," the man said, standing from his seated position and taking several slow steps towards John. His hands were clasped behind his back, his face was stone cold as always, and his tone of voice was nonchalant. "I spoke to Molly today..." His gaze remained fixed on John's still surprised expression and he took another step forward as he spoke. "She said you missed me." 

Sherlock ended his sentence with a smirk, which made John quite uncomfortable. He reached up to tug at the collar of his shirt, but it provided no relief from the sudden suffocation he felt subjected to due to the presence of this unexpected guest.

"How the hell did you get inside my flat?"

"Not important." Sherlock began pacing back and forth in front of John, who was staring slack-jawed at him. "What is important, however, is what you'll be cooking for dinner."

"What- dinner?"

"Yes, didn't you hear me?" Sherlock turned his head to look at John, his eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed. John could only stare back, his feet having been rooted to the ground from the moment he realized Sherlock Holmes was inside his flat. Sherlock stopped pacing and stood directly in front of John, peering down at him as if he were some sort of specimen beneath a microscope that Sherlock was examining. "Are you alright, John? You seem a bit..." Sherlock waved his hands around in the air, using the gesture to take the place of the words he couldn't contrive.

"I'm fine, just... why are you here?" Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

"John, you must know I absolutely hate having to repeat myself, but because you seem to be a bit put-off by my presence I'll let this one slip. I told you I spoke to Molly today."

"Yeah, I got that," John mumbled, making a mental note to have a word with Molly the next time he saw her. Sherlock resumed his pacing and kept his eyes focused solely on John, and the image of a panther stalking its prey sprang to the forefront of John's mind. He ignored the strange feeling stirring in his abdomen and kept his voice steady as he continued to speak. "What I don't understand is how you talking to her lead to you breaking into my flat." When Sherlock spoke again his speech was agonizingly slowed, and John felt like a young child who was having difficulty understanding a simple concept, and Sherlock was the poor chap assigned the duty of explaining it to him.

"She said you missed me."

"I wouldn't necessarily put it that way..." John muttered under his breath, though, he had to admit he had missed Sherlock...in a way. Sherlock dismissed his comment with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

"Well, however you would put it, I must say I felt the same." When he saw the blank look on John's face he sighed and stopped pacing again, his head tilted slightly and a playful smile on his lips. "I missed you too, John."

"What?" John asked a bit louder than he'd meant to. He stared up at Sherlock, who simply stared back with a sly smile that John was starting to think was his signature look. The two of them remained silent for a while, staring at each other, unmoving, and just when John was starting to become restless Sherlock broke the silence with a chuckle and stepped back.

"Come on John," he called over his shoulder as he strolled into the kitchen. "Dinner's not going to cook itself."

"Well I'm sorry to inform you of this Sherlock but, I've already had dinner and I'm quite full."

"Doesn't matter. You're going to have dinner again." By now John had joined Sherlock in the kitchen and leaned against the counter by the sink, watching Sherlock as he rooted through the fridge and various cabinets.

"But why would I have dinner if I'm not hungry?" Sherlock pulled his head out of the cabinet he had previously been exploring and stared at John, his face completely serious.

"Because you'd be having dinner with me." John felt his lips stretch into a wide smile, and the expression was eventually mirrored on Sherlock's face. John pushed himself off of the counter and went to stand beside Sherlock, pulling out various ingredients and spices.

"Alright then," he said, "let's get this dinner started. What are you hungry for?" He turned to Sherlock, who was tapping his chin thoughtfully and scanning over the contents of John's open refrigerator.

"Oh, it's impossible to decide," he finally said, turning to face John with a simper on his face. "You pick."

"You're the one who's gonna eat it," John said, though he reached up to grab a box of lasagna noodles out of the cupboard. "How about we go Italian?" Sherlock responded with a single nod of the head and another small smile.

"Italian sounds great."


	4. Table for Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any mistakes made are my own and I apologize in advance for them.
> 
> Feel free to leave kudos or a comment, and thanks for reading!

The smell of Parmesan cheese and garlic bread permeated the air of John's flat, and it was absolutely delightful. John hummed happily to himself as he put the finishing touches on his dish, and Sherlock watched with a look of mild interest on his face from where he was sitting on the island. He pulled his knees up to rest his chin upon, and John tried not to smile at how winsome he looked sitting like that. He did look quite comfortable though, as he reached down to grab the glass of wine he'd poured for himself and took a sip. Sherlock Holmes seemed to have a knack for making himself at home; In addition to pouring himself a glass of wine he had already taken off his coat and scarf and discarded them on John's couch, and he seemed to have no qualms about climbing all over John's furniture.

"How much longer?" he asked impatiently with his eyes narrowed. John glanced over his shoulder at him and rolled his eyes. He turned back around, and seconds later heard the sound of feet landing on linoleum. Then Sherlock was standing close behind him, peering over his shoulder at the two plates he was preparing. John reached down to grab two forks from a drawer and accidentally elbowed Sherlock in the ribs, causing him to grunt and glare at John when he turned around.

"It's your fault for standing so close." John reached up and poked the centre of Sherlock's chest, and he took a small step backwards. He folded his arms across his chest and stared angrily at the floor.

"Why have you made two plates? I thought you weren't hungry."

"I'm not," John said as he grabbed one plate and pushed past Sherlock. "I'm still going to have dinner with you though." He gestured towards the other plate sitting on the counter, which Sherlock took and began examining.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you having dinner again?" John rolled his eyes but smiled as he sat down at his small, round dinner table and placed his plate in front of him. 

"Because I want to have dinner with you." Sherlock appeared moments later holding his own plate, and sat down across from John. He stared curiously at him, cold eyes raking over very single aspect of his face ad what was visible above the tabletop.

"Why?" John simply shrugged and bit off a piece of his garlic bread. His eyes met Sherlock's as he chewed.

"Because... I want to talk." Sherlock, who had just picked up his fork, placed it back on the table and folded his hands in his lap.

"What about?" Once again John shrugged, and took a bite of his food to give himself some time to think.

"I don't know," he finally said. "I feel like we should...talk about ourselves. Maybe get to know each other a little bit?" Sherlock gave a derisive snort and picked his fork up. He hastily cut a piece of his lasagna and shoved it into his mouth, chewing quickly and swallowing with a vengeance. John sighed and rolled his eyes, then stood and went to pour himself a glass of wine. He was eyeing Sherlock's abandoned glass when a large hand reached into view and grabbed it. John looked up at Sherlock, who was standing incredibly close, and glared at him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and put the glass back down on the counter.

"You're upset."

"Well, sort of." Sherlock, who obviously could not grasp the concept of 'personal space', took a step closer to John and he could feel his cool breath on his cheek when he spoke.

"Why?" John pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment, wondering just how he should answer Sherlock's question. He swept his tongue across his bottom lip and turned his head towards Sherlock's, not caring that their noses were mere centimeters apart.

"Well, Sherlock, this is the second time you've been in my home and though you broke into my flat I just made you dinner, and yet we know absolutely nothing about each other." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and his eyes took on a challenging look, and John braced himself for whatever was to come.

"Well, John Watson, I know you're a doctor, you have been working at St. Bart's for the past few years and you've been a paramedic for only this year. I know you've had this particular flat since your employment at the hospital began, and I know your cooking obsession began over a year ago following your sister's return to rehab. It served as an adequate distraction from your concern for her and your otherwise mundane life, because you had no real friends or a significant other back then. I know your situation has changed somewhat recently, seeing as how you're good friends with Molly and in a rather serious relationship. About time, I must say. I remember thinking what a shame it was for such a handsome young man to be so alone."

"Hold on a minute-" John countered, eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring as he held a hand up. "I don't even know how you know all that, but..." John trailed off as the last of Sherlock's words sunk in. "Handsome?" The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched and he nodded his head.

"Of course. You're quite attractive, John. I'm sure you're aware of that." John could feel a surplus of blood rushing to his cheeks, so he looked down to hide his blush.

"Um, thanks," John murmured, turning away. He retrieved his bottle of red wine from where Sherlock had left it on the counter and cleared his throat while he poured. "You're uh, not so bad yourself." 

When John dared to look up at Sherlock, he saw a coy smile on the man's full lips, and he could feel his face heating up once again. He took a long sip of his wine and leaned against the counter. Sherlock refilled his glass, then returned to the dinner table and began eating again.

"I'm a consulting detective," he said after a long silence. John, who was still standing in the kitchen, almost didn't realize Sherlock had spoken.

"Pardon?" he asked as he sat back down across from Sherlock.

"That's my job." John tilted his head and stared confused at Sherlock, who ignored him and took several bites of his lasagna. John watched him eat, and after several minutes Sherlock looked up and caught his eye. "What?"

"I've never heard of a consulting detective before." 

"That's because I made it up. I'm the only one in the world." Sherlock said this with a smug sort of smile on his face and John couldn't help but to smile as well. Sherlock took a quick sip of his wine before speaking again. "I've lived in London for the past ten years, I like to play the violin when I think, and I have a tendency to go mute for several days at a time."

"That's all very interesting," John said before taking a bite of his now cool lasagna. "Why are you telling me this?" 

"Didn't you say you wanted us to talk about ourselves? Obviously you want to know more about me. It's the least I can do after everything you've done for me." There was a smile on John's face, and he didn't bother trying not to let it show. He glanced up at Sherlock, who held his gaze for several seconds before looking back down at his food. John yawned, then checked the time on his watch. It was late, and he was tired, but rather than excuse himself from the table and end their dinner John asked Sherlock to tell him more about himself, and for the next hour or so they had a rapid-fire cross examination of each other. John told Sherlock about how he'd gotten a scar on his left shoulder blade several years ago at boot camp, which was why he was no longer on the military career track, and various other facts about himself, and in turn Sherlock told John about the summers he spent in France when he was younger.

Even after both men had finished their meals, Sherlock and John remained at the table and talked, only getting up to refill their wine glass or use the restroom. Eventually it got to the point where John was yawning nearly constantly, but he still said nothing and even offered to wash Sherlock's dirtied dinner plate while he freshened up in the bathroom.

John was in the process of washing his own plate when he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned to see Sherlock standing before him, looking rather sheepish as he scratched at his forearm.

"What is it Sherlock?"

"You're tired." John stifled a yawn and smiled up at Sherlock.

"A bit, yeah." Sherlock sighed and held his hands behind his back. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, just..." he sighed again. "I suppose you'll be going to bed soon, which means you'll want me to leave, correct?"

"Erm, not correct." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up and disappeared behind his curly fringe, and John tried not to laugh at his facial expression. "If you don't want to leave yet you don't have to. I'll even stay up with you if you'd like."

"No, no, I couldn't let you do that," Sherlock said, waving a hand in the air. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, and John followed after him. He sat on John's couch and removed his shoes, tossing them to the side. "I do think I'll stay here a bit longer though if you don't mind." He removed his suit jacket and tossed it onto the floor beside his shoes. He was wearing a crisp, white, button up underneath, though with the way he threw himself back onto John's couch he guessed it wouldn't stay wrinkle-free for much longer. He walked over and sat on the arm of the couch where Sherlock's feet were.

"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly. "Is there some reason you don't want to go home?" Sherlock's eyes were now closed, but John could tell he wasn't sleeping. 

"There is," he finally said, "though none of the things you're thinking."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not having family troubles, I did not get kicked out of my flat by my girlfriend or partner, nor am I just plain homeless."

"I never thought you were homeless," John said. "How could I when you dress like that?" Sherlock's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at John.

"Dress like what?"

"Nothing. I mean, your suit-"

"What about it?"

"It looks like it costs more than my rent." Sherlock chuckled and John could feel the deep rumbling in his own chest. "So um, why is it that you don't want to go home?"

"I you must know," Sherlock said on the exhale of a dramatic sigh, "One of the most powerful drug seekers in London was put in jail last night thanks to me. Because of it I've had several groups of pissed off thugs tracking me down all day. I don't want them to follow me to my home." John let out a snort of a laugh and crossed his arms, glaring at Sherlock.

"Oh, so you've led them to mine?" Sherlock pushed up his shirt sleeve and scratched his forearm.

"Relax John, I'm positive they know this isn't where I live or a place I frequently visit." John conjured a mental image of Sherlock breaking into his flat and smiled. The smile vanished when he remembered that Sherlock had in fact broken into his flat, and went to the door to check for signs of damage. "John don't be silly. I didn't break down your door or anything. Everything's as it was and as it should be. Now, go to sleep. You've work in the morning." John turned around, mouth ready to respond, but Sherlock shushed him. "Bed. Now." 

With a sigh and a smile, John turned and went to his room. He changed into his bedclothes and climbed beneath the covers, and was probably asleep before his head hit the pillow.

When John awoke the next morning Sherlock was gone. For some reason his coffee tasted more bitter than usual, despite the excessive amount of creamer he used.

He decided to walk to work that morning, and when he was halfway to his destination it began to rain. He was able to hail a cab though and ended up at the hospital quite a bit earlier than he needed to be. He decided to head to the break room, and was pleased to find Molly already there. Well, he was pleased until he remembered that she'd spoken to Sherlock, and he was even less pleased when he thought about what she'd told him.

"Hi Doctor Watson," she said cheerily, perking up when she saw him. He gave her a tight lipped smile when he entered the room, but it was gone by the time he was standing in front of her.

"I didn't say I missed him." Molly's eyes grew to twice their size and she began stuttering out some sort of apology.

"I- I didn't mean to say- he just.. it-"

"Molly," John said, reaching out and grabbing her shoulders. "I'm not mad at you." He shrugged and his mouth twisted into a weird sort of smile. "Not very." 

"Good. I'm sorry but I just happened to see him when you left and-" Molly stopped talking suddenly and John noticed she was staring past his head. He turned around to see Sherlock casually leaning against the doorframe.

"Hello there," he said. "Sorry for disappearing but I had a sort of early morning appointment with Molly here."

"Oh, that's quite alright, John said, trying not to think about why anyone would make an appointment with a pathologist. Sherlock pushed himself off of the doorframe and walked over to stand beside John, and he smiled up at him. "Did you sleep well?"

"Of course." A moment of silence passed, and suddenly John remembered Molly was still inside the room. He turned to her, ready to offer some sort of explanation, but she probably wouldn't have heard him if he'd told her he was giving her a million pounds. Her eyes were fixed solely on Sherlock, as if he was the only person in the world who existed. He didn't understand why but the look Molly was giving Sherlock made John extremely uncomfortable. 

"I uh, I think I'm gonna go now-"

"Wait," Sherlock said, placing a hand on John's shoulder. "Would you like to join me for lunch? I'd like to make it up to you for last night." John cleared his throat and glanced at Molly, who now looked more confused than ever, then back at Sherlock.

"There's no need for-"

"I'll take you anywhere you want," Sherlock said in a sing-song voice, which made John chuckle.

"Anywhere?" Sherlock smiled and nodded his head.

"Anywhere." With a smile now on his face, John turned and began backing out of the room.

"I'll see you at twelve. Here." John pointed at the ground beneath his feet and Sherlock nodded. After one more glance at a rather flustered-looking Molly, John turned and was out he door.


	5. Be My Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John makes an offer Sherlock simply cannot refuse.

It had been a while since John had last gone out to lunch with anyone, mostly because he tended to work straight through his lunch break. However, John made sure to have finished all of his work for the morning and had even gotten ahead in filling out paperwork so he could justify leaving the hospital to go have lunch with Sherlock Holmes. 

He still couldn't believe Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was taking him out to lunch, after they'd had dinner at John's flat the previous night. Things like this just didn't happen to ordinary people like John. When he'd awoken that morning and found his flat as empty as it had been the day he moved in, he was almost convinced that the previous evening had all been a dream, or some sort of delusion created by John's addled mind. 

When John walked into the break room he half expected to find it empty, but alas, Sherlock was there, leaning against a wall with a cup of coffee in his hand. He greeted John with a smile and placed the cup down beside the coffee maker. He crossed the room with two long strides and met John at the door, peering down at him from his towering height. 

"Ready?" he asked in that smooth baritone voice John's ears had been longing to hear again for hours. He smiled up at Sherlock and nodded his head.

"Ready." Sherlock was the first to leave the room, and John followed after him, struggling to keep up with Sherlock's fast walking pace. By the time they reached the front entrance of he hospital John had to admit he was rather winded.

"Have you decided where you'd like to go?" John stopped dead in his tracks when he realized that no, he had not decided on where he wanted to eat lunch. In fact, he had actually forgotten that he was meant to be choosing heir destination, but he didn't tell Sherlock that. Instead he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

"No, actually." The corner of Sherlock's lips pulled up to form a lopsided grin and he hailed a cab for the two of them. He gave the cabbie an address that John didn't recognize, and the car sped away from the curb.

"Where are we going?" John asked, turning away from the window to look at Sherlock's profile.

"A lovely restaurant on the other side of London. I made reservations for us when I realized you'd probably forget about picking a place to eat." John felt his face flush and he turned away, staring out the window once more. 

"Smart thinking," he said quietly and mostly to himself. Sherlock heard him, and chuckled equally as quietly.

"I know." John tore his gaze away from the window and stared at Sherlock, who simply stared back with a sort of amused smile on his face. They both laughed, and then Sherlock asked John about how his day had been so far. It felt like less than a minute had passed before the cab came to a stop in front of a very fancy looking restaurant. John climbed out after Sherlock, and stared up at the sign above the door while Sherlock paid the cab fare. It read, 'Chez Belle'.

"French?" John asked, turning towards Sherlock, who had just rejoined him on the pavement. He nodded his head, then went forward and opened the door for John. 

When he stepped inside, John's jaw dropped and he stared wide eyed at his surroundings. Everything about this restaurant practically screamed posh, right down to the red velveteen carpet and white silk tablecloths. A bit impractical for a restaurant, John mused, but still very nice.

Sherlock was greeted by a young woman with sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes, wearing the epitome of what was referred to as the 'little black dress'. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock and placed a kiss on his cheek, but even after this great display of affection towards him Sherlock treated her as coolly as he would a stranger. He stepped away from her and cleared his throat, scratching at his forearm and staring at the floor.

"Belle." The woman smiled and sighed.

"Sherlock, always a pleasure to have you in my restaurant." An involuntary gasp escaped from John, causing Sherlock and Belle, as well as a few others, to turn their heads towards him.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "So you're the owner?" Belle nodded her head and extended a hand towards him.

"Belle Moreau, pleased to meet you." It was only then that John noticed the slight French accent she had. He gave her hand a quick shake and smiled.

"John Watson. The pleasure is all mine." Belle pulled her hand away with a coquettish smile on her ruby red lips.

"Well aren't you a charmer," she said playfully. "But of course, you'd have to be quite debonair to capture the attention of Sherlock Holmes here." John ventured a glance at Sherlock, who was staring down at his feet with a frown on his face.

"If you're all done with the introductions now," he said, sounding rather peevish, "We'd like to be seated as soon as possible."

"Of course, of course. Laila here will show you to your seats." Belle pointed to a young looking girl with her brunette hair tied into an elegant ponytail, then turned and began walking away to the kitchen it seemed. "Enjoy your meals boys!"

Once John and Sherlock had sat down and been given menus, the reality of the entire situation began to sink in. John was actually sitting across from Sherlock Holmes in the most elegant restaurant he'd ever set foot in, about to have lunch with him. The mere thought of it brought a silly grin to John's face.

"So," Sherlock said, setting down his menu and taking off his coat, "you see anything you like?" John's eyes continued to scan over the various menu items as he responded.

"Oh, yes." His mouth was nearly watering just from reading the descriptions of some of the meals. He heard Sherlock's deep chuckle from across the table and looked up. Sherlock was smiling at him while he absentmindedly scratched at his forearm. "What are you getting?" Sherlock shrugged.

"Not sure. I'm not very hungry so I might just get an appetizer or something." John nodded his head slowly, wandering if he too should get something light, as to not look like a pig on this outing of sorts. A cough from Sherlock tore him away from his thoughts, and he looked up, eyebrows raised. Sherlock smiled at him, though to John it resembled a smirk more than anything. "Don't you go thinking that you have to get an appetizer too. You go ahead and order everything on the menu if you want." John chuckled and shook his head, folding the menu and placing in it on the table in front of him. 

Their waiter arrived soon enough and they placed their orders: Coq au Riesling for John and a small quiche for Sherlock. Their meals arrived faster than John would've expected, and the food was amazing. The complementary champagne that had been given to them was great as well, and John's taste buds were in French heaven. He and Sherlock didn't talk much, due to the fact that both men were stuffing their faces. Well, John was stuffing his face; Sherlock was taking small, delicate bites every other minute. Still, despite the fact that Sherlock ate slowly and took such tiny bites, he finished his meal before John, and sat back in his seat to watch John as he ate.

A bit self conscious, John glanced up every so often at Sherlock, gauging his response to the sight of him eating, and each time he looked up Sherlock's fingernails were scraping against he pale skin of his forearm. With his eyebrows furrowed John dropped his fork, and stared up at Sherlock.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, as if he didn't understand, but also pushed his shirt sleeve back down and hid his hands beneath the table.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't act stupid with me," John warned him. Sherlock refused to meet his gaze and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He slid over some and started to stand up, but John reached out and managed to grab his wrist, pulling him down to sit beside him. Sherlock tried to wrench free of his grasp, and John was reminded of the first time they'd met; It didn't give him a good feeling. He hastily pushed up the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt and examined the skin that had been revealed. When he saw the track marks on Sherlock's arm he gasped and looked up. Sherlock was staring up at the ceiling, still refusing to meet his gaze.

"Sherlock-"

"Yeah I know John." Sherlock snatched his arm away and stood up quickly. He grabbed his jacket and began putting it on, his words coming out of his mouth so fast they stared to blend together.

"I know what you're thinking but don't you worry about me. I don't need your pity nor your judgement so I think I'll just go now and luckily for you I have not spent all my money on any recreational..." he stopped to take in a much needed breath, then cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'll pay the check." With that he turned to leave, but John managed to grab a hold of his coat and pulled him back.

"Sherlock, wait!" He stood as well, still keeping his grip on Sherlock's coat tight. Sherlock turned to face him, looking completely crestfallen and angry. There were so many words racing through John's mind, and it took him a moment before he could steel himself and meet Sherlock's gaze with a look of concern and nothing else in his eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock sucked in a breath, and John prepared himself for the worst. "We don't have to," he quickly amended, "but please, don't go." 

They stood there for what felt like forever with their eyes locked, and John's hand firmly grasping Sherlock's trench coat. Eventually Sherlock sighed and nodded his head, then sat back down at the table. John breathed a sigh of relief and slid into his own seat. They sat together in an awkward silence while John tried to come up with the right words to say. 

"I'm going through a bit of a...rough time, alright?" Sherlock suddenly said, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached towards his forearm but stopped himself, casting his eyes downward like an ashamed puppy. John instantly felt his heart swell with sympathy for the man. 

"What's troubling you?" John asked, placing a hand in the table and staring intently at Sherlock. There was another long pause, and John began to think he would be late getting back to work, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He focused all of his attention on Sherlock, who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat and obviously trying not to scratch his arm.

"I might have lied about my reasoning for wanting to stay away from home last night." John folded his hands together and rested them on top of the table, making sure to give Sherlock his full attention. He saw the hesitance in Sherlock's face, and when their eyes met John silently urged him to go on. Sherlock sighed and nodded his head, silently agreeing to. 

"You see," he said despondently, "Despite what my immaculate appearance might suggest I am actually in between homes at the moment." John felt his eyebrows raise, and immediately regretted his response to Sherlock's statement. Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back from the table, sighing heavily. "I can assure you though I am not homeless." He groaned and met John's gaze with an exasperated look. "I'm staying with my brother until I can find a proper place to live."

"Oh, that doesn't sound too bad," John offered. Sherlock squinted at him and tilted his head.

"You don't know my brother." John shrugged and nodded his head in agreement.

"You're right," he said. "I don't."

"Be glad for that." Sherlock said, before taking an angry sip of his drink, and folding his arms on the table, resting his head upon them. John dared to reach out and placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talking won't solve my problems."

"Neither will sticking a needle in your arm." Sherlock's head snapped up and he glared fiercely at John, who immediately began trying to retract his statement. "I'm so sorry it just slipped out. I-"

"Whatever," Sherlock said, waving a hand in the air. John placed his hands back in his lap, and offered a friendly smile.

"Why don't you stay at my flat for a bit? You know, until you get back on your feet?" When he saw the bewildered look on Sherlock's face he shrugged. "Just an option. I would hope you don't find me as repulsive as your brother."

"You?" Sherlock asked a bit loudly, brow furrowed as he squinted at John. The doctor began tugging at his collar and avoiding eye contact with Sherlock, suddenly ashamed of having made the offer. That was until he noticed the smile playing at Sherlock's bow shaped lips. "You're far from it." He brought his hand up to his chin and began tracing his jawline with his fingertips, and John found himself unable to look away. Then Sherlock dropped his hand and held John's gaze with his piercing eyes. "Is your offer sincere?"

"Of course," John said without giving it a second thought. The smile that had made a brief appearance moments before now returned in full force, and the corners of Sherlock's eyes crinkled slightly as he let out a soft sigh.

"Then I accept."


	6. Moving Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's reading this!  
> As always, all mistakes are my own, and I apologize for them.  
> 

Growing up, John had had a fairly standard childhood. He lived on the outskirts of London in a three bedroom house, went to public school, and even owned a car when he was old enough. His home was the largest on his street, and was rather nice, and he'd felt privileged to live in it. 

Still, his house failed substantially in comparison to Sherlock's childhood home. Nestled comfortably inside a gated community, the three story mansion was the most extravagant residence John had ever laid eyes on. The thought of anyone wanting to escape this place was more than perplexing to John, and he told Sherlock this the moment they stepped food inside the great estate. His statement was met with a dramatic sigh and an eye roll from Sherlock, who once again informed John that he did not know his brother Mycroft.

"Will I get to meet him?" 

"Not if you're lucky." John chuckled, and Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye as they navigated the many hallways of the Holmes Estate. John glanced around at the paintings that adorned the walls, noticing the severe lack of family photos that could usually be found in every home. John wondered if there was any sort of connection between the lack of sentimental decorations within Sherlock's childhood home and his somewhat cold and detached nature. He decided not to dwell on that thought for too long and instead focused on how loudly his and Sherlock's footsteps echoed throughout every hallway as they walked.

"Where are we going, exactly?" he asked after they'd been walking for several minutes.

"Library. It's where all my stuff is being kept."

"Not in your room?

"No."

John opened his mouth and sucked in a breath, but the look Sherlock gave him made him seal his lips immediately. He just nodded his head and no more words were said until they reached their destination in the East wing of the house. The library was large and extravagant like the rest of the manor, and John took a few moments to appreciate the myriad of books contained within the baronial bookcases while Sherlock gathered his things from a far corner of the room.

"Do you need any help?"

"No thanks I've got it." After hearing the slight strain in Sherlock's voice, John diverted his attention from the twenty two volume ornithology encyclopedia in front of him and glanced over his shoulder. When he saw Sherlock trying to balance six large bags on his person he chuckled and walked over, grabbing a bag and the two boxes that Sherlock had been trying to pick up. Sherlock met his eyes with a confused gaze, but John only smiled and strolled towards the door. He waited in the hallway for Sherlock, who emerged looking somewhat flustered, and the two men made their way back to the front of the mansion, where a sleek black car and an equally as sleek looking man in a black uniform was waiting for them.

"Hello, Master Sherlock," the man greeted, bowing slightly before reaching for Sherlock's bags. He threw them into the boot of the car while John stood nearby, then he grabbed the boxes and placed those inside as well. John joined Sherlock in the back seat of the car and turned to face him with a smile.

"Master Sherlock?" he questioned, causing Sherlock to groan and roll his eyes. John chuckled and turned to look out the window, searching for any sign of the driver. He saw him still standing at the boot of the car, talking to some man John had never seen before. He reached over and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder, then when he had his attention he pointed to the back window. Sherlock turned and looked, scowled when he saw the man, then quickly got out of the car. John watched from his place in the back seat as Sherlock approached who John guessed was his brother. They appeared to exchange a few heated words before Mycroft turned and casually strolled into the house, leaving behind a red-faced Sherlock and an uncomfortable looking driver. When Sherlock climbed back into the car he looked rather sullen and was undoubtedly pouting, despite the fact that he was a fully-grown man. John could still see a faint flush on his cheeks.

"Everything alright?" he asked, starting to reach towards Sherlock but stopping his hand halfway. Sherlock gave a curt nod and turned towards the window.

"Everything's fine. I'm leaving this place, I couldn't be happier." John wasn't fully convinced due to the monotony of Sherlock's voice and eyed him skeptically. Sherlock caught his eye in the reflection of the window and offered him a tight smile. "I assure you John, everything is okay." John sighed and nodded his head, and settled into his seat. The driver had now taken his place behind the wheel and they were finally headed back to John's flat so Sherlock could officially move in.

When they arrived, John and Sherlock carried Sherlock's things into the flat, and placed them in a corner of John's bedroom. John hovered in the doorway between the hallway and his room while Sherlock surveyed the pile of bags and boxes. He looked like he was deep in thought, with his brow furrowed and fingers gently caressing his own jaw.

"What is it?" John asked, stepping back inside the room and standing beside Sherlock.

"Don't you think it would be better to leave this in the living room? I don't want to have to come into your personal space every time I need to change my outfit or grab a book."

"You won't be," John said as he grabbed Sherlock's arm and led him out into the living room. John sat down on his couch, and Sherlock sat in the armchair directly beside it, turning slightly in the seat to face John. John brought his feet up onto the couch and turned to face Sherlock, a smile on his face. "You'll be staying in my bedroom, and I'll sleep out here."

"I can't let you," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "The couch will be just fine for me."

"You're my guest, Sherlock."

"And as your guest I'm requesting you let me sleep on the couch." Sherlock looked over at him and their gazes locked. John narrowed his eyes, as did Sherlock, and they waged a silent war that John lost when he sighed and nodded his head.

"Fine, fine." He stood from the couch and began walking to the kitchen. "What do you want for dinner?" He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was staring at him through still-narrowed eyes.

"Dinner?" he asked, sounding somewhat scandalized, "I've already eaten today." John couldn't help but to laugh.

"Do you only eat once a day?" 

"Sometimes not even that." John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who immediately ducked his head down and avoided eye contact. John decided not to press the matter further and continued on into the kitchen. Just because Sherlock wasn't going to eat didn't mean he wasn't. He set about taking down various ingredients to make a stir fry, and heard his television click on in the living room. John listened to the sounds of his favourite police show while he cooked, and decided that he could get used to this...arrangement he now had with Sherlock. 

Just as John was finishing his cooking he noticed that he could no longer hear the tv, and could only hear Sherlock's muffled voice instead. He turned the stove off and peeked into the living room to see Sherlock pacing back and forth in front of the tv, which was now muted, talking to himself it seemed.

"What are you doing?" 

"Thinking." John took a step closer and tilted his head.

"About what?" Sherlock continued pacing for a moment, and John thought his question hadn't been heard. He was starting to turn back to go into the kitchen when he heard Sherlock's voice.

"Nothing important." John glanced briefly up at Sherlock, who was still pacing, then went into the kitchen. He then grabbed a plate from a cupboard overhead and began spooning some of the stir fry onto it. As John was grabbing a fork from the dishwasher Sherlock appeared beside him, looking extremely uncomfortable. John started to ask if everything was alright, but he was silenced when Sherlock raised a slender finger to his lips. John nodded and walked over to the dinner table, setting his plate down in front of him. Sherlock followed and stood beside John's chair.

"I must have you know, John, I do... I do appreciate this. I'm not exactly an expert when it comes to..." he trailed off and stared at the floor, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "When it comes to.."

"Thanking me?" John offered. He saw the look of relief that briefly flashed across Sherlock's features before he nodded. John chuckled and took a bite of his stir fry. "It's no problem, really. I've always wanted a flat mate."

"Me too." John raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.

"Really?" Sherlock seemed to be arguing with himself for a moment, then sighed and shook his head.

"No. I was just attempting to establish some sort of common ground." John laughed as he shoved another forkful of stir fry into his mouth. He chewed silently, and after several moments, Sherlock sat down across from him, in the same seat he'd been in when John had cooked them dinner. It was crazy to think that was only two days ago. 

"So," he said when he finished his meal. "what do we do now?" 

"Oh, I don't know. What do flatmates usually do on boring Thursday nights?" 

"Watch telly, most likely. Drink a few beers, chat a bit." Sherlock made a disgusted face, and though John felt he shouldn't have found it funny, he did. Sherlock saw the smile on his face and glared at him, but John wasn't fazed. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap and smiled at Sherlock. "How about we, oh how did you put it, establish some common ground?" Sherlock shrugged.

"I assume there are worst ways to spend an evening."

"I'm taking that as a yes." John stood from the table and signaled for Sherlock to follow him. They walked into the living room, and John sat down on the couch. Sherlock sat in the armchair, and the two men faced each other instead of the tv that was still on mute. Several moments of silence ticked by, but it wasn't exactly awkward. John took in a breath, and could see the slight widening of Sherlock's eyes, indicating interest in what John was about to say. He tried not to smile at the thought.

"So, tell me about yourself. What do you like?"

"Experimenting, working, occasionally reading." John thought over what Sherlock said, trying to decide where he would take the conversation. He settled for reading, because it was also a hobby of his and he would most likely be able to contribute more to that conversation.

"What do you like to read?"

"Non-fiction." John shrugged, not exactly happy with the answer he received but still glad he'd gotten an answer. Sherlock seemed rather uncomfortable with this activity, but at least he was going along with it. He shifted in his seat before hesitantly meeting John's gaze. "Do you like to read?"

"Oh, yes!" John said, sounding a bit too happy at Sherlock having asked him a question. "I read mostly medical journals and crime dramas though, with the occasional romance novel if I feel like it." Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, and John began to feel incredibly self-conscious. "Mostly medical journals and crime dramas though." Sherlock began to look around the room with a bored expression on his face, and John was about to terminate the conversation when Sherlock's eyes suddenly snapped to his.

"Was your father a military man?"

"Uh, no. He was a doctor." Sherlock looked extremely upset by this information, so John began wracking his brain for something else to say that might please him more. "My uncle was in the military though. He's who I'm named after they say. Captain John Watson." John smiled, as did Sherlock. 

"You're very fond of him." John nodded his head.

"I was. He died when I was seventeen. Killed in action. He was the reason I decided to join the military."

"But you're a doctor."

"Yeah, I am now. But I did go to boot camp." John subconsciously reached up to place a hand on his left shoulder, an action that did not go unnoticed by Sherlock.  
"You said you were injured there. What happened to your shoulder?" John bit his lip and looked away, not exactly willing to tell the tale of how his nearly-fatal injury came to be. Sherlock seemed to pick up on this and immediately changed the subject, asking John about his time working at St. Bart's. They talked for hours until John decided that he was rather knackered and stood from the sofa. Sherlock stood from his seat as well and followed John to his bedroom. He grabbed what John guessed were his pyjamas and went into the bathroom to change. John grabbed a pillow from his bed and a blanket from the hallway closet and carried them into the living room. Sherlock appeared beside him as he was fluffing the pillow, clad in a pair of grey pyjama pants, white t-shirt, and blue housecoat.

"John, there's no need for that."

"It's bad enough you're sleeping on my couch. I want you to be comfortable." Sherlock sighed and sank down onto the couch. John handed him the pillow, and was incredibly aware of how their hands touched when he did so. Sherlock placed the pillow behind his head and stared up at John.

"I really do appreciate this John," he said, his voice soft. "I hope you understand." John just smiled and nodded his head, then turned to leave. "Please allow me to make it up to you?" 

"Just how do you plan on doing that?" Sherlock smirked at him, and suddenly John felt a strange feeling stirring in his abdomen. His breath stuttered and he raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who simply rolled his eyes and looked away.

"How would you like to accompany me to Scotland Yard tomorrow?"


	7. Deductions and Dinner Preparation

"I really do appreciate this John," he said, his voice soft. "I hope you understand." John just smiled and nodded his head, then turned to leave. "Please allow me to make it up to you?" 

"Just how do you plan on doing that?" Sherlock smirked at him, and suddenly John felt a strange feeling stirring in his abdomen. His breath stuttered and he raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who simply rolled his eyes and looked away.

"How would you like to accompany me to Scotland Yard tomorrow?"

_______________________________________________________________________

A gentle breeze was the first thing to greet John Watson when he stepped out of the cab. He stared up at the building with an awestruck expression, not even feeling the hand that was placed on his shoulder when Sherlock came to stand beside him.

"Come on," he said, tilting his head towards the entrance to the building, "Lestrade's waiting." John could detect the hint of a nervous tremor in Sherlock's usually desiccated voice. John began to wonder what on Earth Sherlock was nervous about as they made their way through several corridors and passed offices full of busy looking people. John's eyes greedily took in his surroundings and Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye with a smile. They rounded a corner and found a room bustling with people, carrying important looking files and talking on their phones. John noticed a young woman with dark curly hair approaching them with a scowl on her face. She seemed oddly familiar, but John couldn't figure out why.

"So what brings you here today Freak?" The venom in her voice was hard to ignore, and John felt his blood pressure spike after hearing her speak to Sherlock in such a way. Sherlock, however, seemed unfazed by the harsh tone and opprobrious nickname and actually answered her question with a smile on his face.

"Lestrade called me. Apparently his team has been performing less than adequately and he needs me to look at some files or something." He smirked at the woman, who snarled and glared at Sherlock, and John watched the exchange with both confusion and interest written on his face.

"Why on Earth would he ask you to come in to look for files and not, oh I don't know, someone who actually works here?" Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at the woman with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"The same reason Anderson dumped you last week: he found someone who can do it better." John had to hide his smile with his fist, and tried not to even look at the woman who was now staring daggers at Sherlock.

"Oh, that's quite the comeback," she said bitterly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled, crossing his arms over his chest in a provoking manner.

"I think you'll find I'm full of great comebacks." 

"I think you're full of sh-"

"You wanna watch your mouth there, maybe?" John cautioned, causing both Sherlock and the woman to turn towards him. John felt his face get hot but he met her gaze firmly. He saw confusion, surprise, and even annoyance in her eyes, and though he felt uncomfortable he was glad to have taken her attention off of Sherlock, if only for a moment. He didn't quite understand the cause for the enmity these two had for each other, but he refused to just stand there and let Sherlock be verbally abused, especially when he knew Sherlock had other, more important obstacles to face.

"And who are you?" the woman questioned, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows. John felt a hand on his shoulder and allowed himself to be pulled closer to Sherlock.

"His name is John." 

Sherlock placed his other hand on John's other shoulder and spun him around before gently guiding him down the hall.They came across a closed door, the first closed door John had seen, and Sherlock knocked on it. There was a muffled 'come in!' and Sherlock opened the door, revealing a large, immaculate office with minimal furniture. There was a desk in the center of the room with two chairs before it, and several bookcases on the far wall. There was a man standing in the middle of the floor holding several manila envelopes and pacing. When he saw Sherlock enter, his face lit up with a smile and he came towards them.

"Hello Sherlock." His eyes flicked over briefly to John, who was standing behind Sherlock and peering over his shoulder. "Who's this?" Before John could even open his mouth to speak Sherlock had answered.

"John. He's with me."

"Yeah, okay, but who is he?"

"I said he's with me." Sherlock said this as if it were all the justification he needed for bringing John into the building. Lestrade placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, and John started to back out of the room.

"Should I just go?"

"No." The question had barely left John's lips before Sherlock answered him, not taking his eyes off of Lestrade. The two men were caught in a silent and seemingly very serious staring contest, but after several seconds Lestrade conceded defeat and walked over to his desk, opening the envelopes and spreading their contents onto the polished wood surface. Sherlock followed, and John lumbered over to stand with the two of them, staring down at the assortment of papers. All he saw were pictures of corpses and medical reports. What on earth could be so riveting about pictures and paperwork?

"It's not the actual pictures and paperwork per say, but rather the possible clues they contain."

John raised his head and was about to ask Sherlock if he just happened to be a mind reader when he realized he had in fact asked his question out loud. He glanced up at Sherlock, who was smirking at him, and forced himself to look away.

Lestrade cleared his throat, and John suddenly remembered he and Sherlock weren't the only ones in the room. He crossed his arms and stared down at the floor, trying to ignore how hot his face felt. 

"So, you got anything?" John could hear the quiet sigh Sherlock gave, and imagined him shrugging his shoulders. He looked up in time to see him reach down and point at one of the pictures.

"Lestrade, I assume you remember Mrs. McQuillen?" The Detective Inspector only had enough time to nod his head before Sherlock sucked in a breath and began talking again. "This young woman worked as a maid for her. You should send someone over to her house for questioning." Lestrade nodded his head and pulled out his phone, and John leaned over towards Sherlock.

"What does that woman's being a maid have to do with anything?" he whispered, turning to look at Sherlock. Sherlock leaned over towards John, but still kept his voice at its normal volume level.

"Over the course of the past two weeks there have been five murders, and until now the only connection between them all was the fact that they had some sort of alcoholic beverage in their system at the time of their death. Otherwise, the deaths seemed completely unrelated. Mrs. McQuillen's grandson was the first body to be found, and the fourth was this young woman, named Diane Cooper, who worked as a maid in her house. This shows that there is some sort of connection between at least these two murders, and probably all five. We are now most likely dealing with a serial killer, which makes this case much more exciting... and easier to solve as well." John took a moment to absorb Sherlock's short and rapidly spoken monologue, and found himself leaning closer to the detective as he asked his next question.

"Alright, well, how do you know Miss Cooper was Mrs. McQuillen's maid?" Sherlock's eyes took on a wicked gleam, and John could hear Lestrade sigh softly in the background.

"I can tell by the callouses on her metacarpophalangeal joints and the vertical dent on the skin of her forearm that she did a lot of work with objects such as mops and brooms, and did a fair amount of embroidery. If you look closely at her clothing you'll see little hairs interwoven with the fabric. That means she either owns an animal with short hair or had been around one shortly before her death. Mrs. McQuillen is in fact the owner of a Chartreux, a cat with short hair the same colour as the hairs in the fabric of Miss Cooper's shirt. Now, I assume you'll-" Sherlock turned towards John and stopped mid-sentence when he saw the awestruck look on his face. "What?" John's eyes were wide as he stared into Sherlock's, and all he could think about was how incredible and brilliant this man must be to have figured all of that out so quickly, and he spoke without thinking.

"You're amazing."

Both Sherlock and Lestrade looked at John with bewildered expressions, and John cleared his throat, staring down at the floor once more. "I mean the um, how you figured all that out...is amazing." When John looked up again Sherlock was grinning at him, and he tried his best to smile back. John was faintly aware of Lestrade clearing his throat, and was even more aware of the look of annoyance that flashed across Sherlock's features when the Detective Inspector did so.

"So I'll send someone to go talk to Mrs. McQuillen and let you know what they find out, alright?" Sherlock gave a curt nod, then turned and left the office without another word. John stood awkwardly for a moment in front of Lestrade, wondering how and if he should say goodbye, but Sherlock popped his head back into the room before he could decide on anything.

"Are you coming John?" he asked. John nodded his head and left the room, trailing closely behind Sherlock as to not get lost on their way out of the building. Once they made it outside and into a cab John turned to Sherlock and sucked in a breath.

"Um, Sherlock?" The detective beside him gave a noncommittal noise to show John had his attention. "Look, I know I should have told you this sooner but..." he began wringing his hands, and couldn't understand why it was he felt so nervous about what he was about to tell Sherlock. "Listen... tonight, my girlfriend Mary is coming over for dinner." 

Sherlock's head turned away from the window and he narrowed his eyes at John. John could see no emotion on his face; Even so, the way Sherlock was looking at him was a bit unnerving. Sherlock stared at John for a moment longer before turning to look out the window once more. 

"What time would you like me to leave?"

"What, leave?" By now the cab had pulled up in front of John's flat and the two men got out after John paid the cabbie. John fished his keys out of his pocket while Sherlock stood behind him on the pavement. "Why would I ask you to leave?" Sherlock's breath tickled the back of John's neck as he spoke, and he fumbled with his keys a bit when he felt the cool air hit his skin.

"Well I assume you'd want me out of the house for this dinner of yours."

"Why on earth would I want you gone when Mary's coming over specifically to meet you?"

"Me?"

John finally managed to get the door unlocked and the two of them stepped inside. John removed his coat and placed it on the hanger by the door, then turned to face Sherlock, who looked absolutely astonished. "Why is she coming to meet me?"

"Because I asked her to." Sherlock removed his coat and placed it over John's on the coat rack and they ventured further into the living room. The two of them then went to their respective places on the sofa and armchair, and John picked up the remote. "I figured it would be best for my girlfriend to meet the man I'm living with." Though John didn't look at him, he could still hear Sherlock's quiet chuckle, and found himself smiling as well. He turned on the television and the two of them watched crime show dramas together for the next few hours until John decided he would begin making dinner. Sherlock, apparently having lost interest in television the moment John left the room, went to retrieve his violin from John's room and started playing an arrangement of pieces ranging from Bach and Tchaikovsky to versions of more contemporary songs. John hummed along when he could, and Sherlock played while leaning against whatever kitchen counter John wasn't using at the time. It was a strange thought but, John couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun cooking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lackluster chapter (and crappy title), but I promise it'll get much better after this. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Monde Merveilleux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all mistakes are my own and I apologize for them.  
> Thanks to everyone who's reading!

Mary showed up at a quarter to seven. John had been putting the finishing touches on their food and Sherlock was playing the violin when they heard a knock at the door.

"That's her," John said with a smile as he wiped off his hands. "Sherlock? Would you mind pouring us some wine while I go answer the door?"

"Anything for you John," Sherlock called back, placing his violin on the counter and reaching up to retrieve some glasses from an overhead cupboard. His now-untucked dress shirt rose a bit, revealing a pale sliver of skin that John's eyes were momentarily drawn to before he turned and left the kitchen. He smoothed down his hair and pulled at the hem of his jumper before opening the door. Mary greeted him warmly with a hug and a kiss on the lips, and John took her coat and hung it up while she made her way into the kitchen.

"Hello there," John heard her say, "you must be Sherlock."

"And you must be Mary." 

John walked into the kitchen in time to see Sherlock hand Mary a glass of white wine, and found himself smiling at the sight of them. He hadn't realized until now, but he was quite nervous at how this night would play out. Sherlock didn't seem to be the most amicable of people, despite how cordial he acted towards John, and if he didn't like Mary or vice versa, John was sure that dinner would not be an enjoyable event.

However, by the time the three of them had sat down at John's dinner table, John and Sherlock sitting across from each other and Mary sat on John's left side, it seemed that the two of them had taken quite a liking to one another. They chatted happily about Mary's family and Sherlock's work with Scotland Yard, and though Sherlock had hardly touched his dinner nor his drink, he seemed to be in good spirits as he listened to Mary tell a story from her childhood about an old teacher she had who used to work with the circus.

Hours passed before anyone even thought to look at the time, and when John did happen to glance at the clock on the wall he was shocked to see that it was nearing midnight. Normally he wouldn't have said anything, but he did have an early shift at St. Bart's the next day. He stood from his seat and cleared the table while Sherlock and Mary talked, but by the time he reached the sink a pair of large palish hands took the dirty dishes from him. John looked up at Sherlock, who simply smiled and nudged John out of the way with his bony hip.

"I've got this," he whispered. "You go kiss your lady friend goodnight." He winked at John, then turned and started washing the dishes. John numbly walked out into the living room, where Mary was putting on her coat. She smiled when she saw him, and tilted her head in the direction of the kitchen.

"I like him."

"What?" John asked with a smile on his face, stepping forward to take one of Mary's delicate hands into his. Mary suppressed a laugh and lightly swatted at John as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. "I said I like him." John let go of her hand and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her left ear, pausing to cup her cheek. "It'll be good for you to have a little more testosterone around." John dropped his hand, then reached behind her to unlock and open the front door. 

"What do you mean by that?" Mary turned and looked over her shoulder at the awaiting cab. Funny, John didn't remember anyone calling for a cab. 

"I mean you've been spending too much time with just Molly and me. Every guy needs a good male friend, you know that. It's a scientifically proven fact." They shared a laugh, and John heard the sound of a car horn blowing. He glared over Mary's shoulder before leaning in to give her a tender kiss. She pulled away with a smile and waved over her shoulder as she climbed inside the cab. John closed the door as the cab pulled away, and turned to see Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, violin in hand, absentmindedly plucking at the strings. 

"She seems nice," he said. John paused on his way to his bedroom and stared down at Sherlock.

"You think so?" Sherlock nodded his head and ceased his plucking. John watched as his slender fingers began to gently caress the instrument, and his tongue darted out to lick his slightly chapped lips. Sherlock's hand stilled, and John's eyes snapped up to his face. When he saw the smirk Sherlock was giving him he felt his face flush and he looked away. John ignored the sound of Sherlock's deep laughter as he walked down the hall into his bedroom. He could hear Sherlock begin to play a song on the violin as he closed his bedroom door. He changed into his bedclothes while listening to the sweet sound of Sherlock's violin, and even after he climbed beneath his sheets the music continued on. He lay there for several moments trying to decide if he enjoyed the soothing music or hated it for keeping him awake. 

He considered asking Sherlock to stop playing at least until he got to sleep, but remembered something Sherlock had told him during their first meal together: he plays the violin while thinking. If there was something on Sherlock's mind this late at night, John wasn't going to interfere. So, he closed his eyes and put a pillow over his head, imagining that he was in the kitchen once again with Sherlock standing behind him, playing the 'soundtrack to dinner' as he'd previously called it. He was asleep within minutes.

___________________________

John eventually had a key made for Sherlock, so that he could come and go as he pleased without the need for forced entry every time John wasn't home. John spent his days as he always did: working at St Bart's and occasionally going out with Mary after work. In the evening he and Sherlock watched crap telly and shared stories about how their days went. Sherlock always had the more interesting stories to tell, so eventually it got to the point where he would talk while John started on dinner, and when Sherlock got tired of talking he would get out his violin and play. 

They rarely ate in silence, and due to the excessive amount of talking in between bites dinner usually encompassed several hours each night, and John was always quite knackered by the time his head landed on his pillow. Of course, Sherlock had gotten into the habit of playing is violin at the same time John went to bed, so it always took John a moment to fully and completely fall asleep. He viewed it as a mild inconvenience when compared to everything else Sherlock had brought into his life, all of it benignant.

On the days John wasn't working, Sherlock brought him along to Scotland Yard and various crime scenes to assist him with his work. Though rather than assist John usually ended up just singing praises of Sherlock's deductive prowess while everyone else rolled their eyes and jotted down notes. Every now and then John would serve as a sort of defender for Sherlock when he felt someone was insulting him; Usually it was that woman with the curly hair that John had grown an intense dislike for. Sherlock never said anything, but John could tell he was grateful for the barrier John provided from her verbal abuse.

Afterwards they would go out for dinner at various local restaurants before returning to John's flat, where they spent the rest of the night watching television. They tried playing board games on several different occasions, but each game had ended with Sherlock damaging the game and disappearing into the bathroom to sulk. 

Though he found Sherlock's temper tantrums strangely endearing, John had made it his mission to find a game that Sherlock might actually enjoy playing. One night after they'd wrapped up a particularly thrilling smuggling case John surprised Sherlock with a game of Cluedo. He was sure Sherlock would like it; It was a murder-mystery game, after all, but when Sherlock saw John walking towards him with the box in his hands and a hopeful smile on his face, he scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Really John, haven't you given up on this little endeavor of yours? Why can't you just accept the fact that I don't like board games?" 

"Oh come on Sherlock, humour me." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, who stuck out his bottom lip, and laughed. 

"Don't you think you're acting a bit childish?" John sat down on the floor in front of where Sherlock was perched on the sofa and pretended to glare at him.

"Says the man who threw my Monopoly board out the window two weeks ago." John smirked at Sherlock, and noted that the usually ivory-colored skin of his cheeks was now tinted with a rosy hue. Their eyes met for a split second and Sherlock gave a heavy sigh as he pulled himself down onto the floor beside John, peering over his shoulder at the box he held in his hands.

"What have you got for me this time?" John struggled to ignore the fact that Sherlock's chin was basically resting on his shoulder and tilted the box so Sherlock could clearly see the top. Sherlock's groan was loud in John's ear due to their close proximity, but rather than be annoyed by it John just laughed and nudged Sherlock in the side with his elbow.

"Come on, give it a try."

"But John-"

"Please?" John turned to look at Sherlock, searching his eyes for any sign of honest annoyance and finding none. Instead, Sherlock's usually cold eyes softened and he sighed, shaking his head slightly. 

"Oh John," he said, "I can never say no to you." They shared a smile before John opened the box and pulled out the instructions. Sherlock unfolded the board and began setting everything up according to John's direction.

Half and hour later Sherlock was holed up in the bathroom and John was extracting a butcher knife from the game board. He placed the knife on the kitchen counter with a sigh, then carefully folded up the board as to not exacerbate the damage any further, and placed everything back inside the box. He put it with the rest of the board games and went to check on Sherlock. 

He knocked on the door and received no response, which was strange because Sherlock almost always yelled some sort of expletive at John before opening the door and stomping into the living room. John knocked again, and heard shuffling on the other side.

"Go away John," Sherlock said quietly, his voice sounding a bit off. Now worried, John tried the handle and found it to be unlocked. He opened the door and walked inside, letting out a surprised yelp when he saw a naked Sherlock bent over, pulling off one of his socks. John immediately backed out of the room and closed the door, bracing himself against the wall, thanking his lucky stars that Sherlock had been facing away from the door. He heard the door open and turned to see Sherlock, now dressed in a silk blue robe, leaning against the wall beside John with his arms folded across his chest. John's eyes glanced downward briefly and he was relieved to see that Sherlock had tied the robe tightly around himself, and that he was only wearing one sock. He heard Sherlock chuckle quietly.

"John, my eyes are up here." 

John forced himself to make eye contact with Sherlock despite how awkward he felt, and when he saw the smile on Sherlock's face he found himself smiling back, though it was mainly out of sheer embarrassment.

"Sorry," he finally managed to say. "About...that." Sherlock shrugged and his smile widened.

"I'm not embarrassed John, so you have no reason to be. Nor do you have a reason to apologize."

"Right, sorry." Sherlock chuckled and placed a hand on John's shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. John stared down at Sherlock's hand for a moment, his mind unable to form a coherent thought. After a while Sherlock removed his hand and strolled back into the bathroom, and seconds later John heard the shower water begin to run. John remained in the hallway for a moment longer, unsure as to why he had yet to move. He heard a quiet, mellifluous sound floating out from underneath the door with the steam, and realized that Sherlock was in fact singing in the shower. John leaned closer to the door to hear better, and let out a quiet laugh when he realized Sherlock was singing in French. After several minutes had passed and John realized just how creepy it was to be listening to his flat mate shower, John made his way to his bedroom and changed quickly. He slid underneath the duvet and tried very hard not to think about the fact that he had now seen his flatmate naked and heard him sing, shutting his eyes so tightly he saw stars.

John tossed and turned for an immeasurable amount of time, and the last thing he remembered before drifting off into the sleep was the quiet sound of a violin.


	9. Lips of an Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say thank you to everyone who's reading! The subscriptions and kudos are very much appreciated :)  
> Also, apologies for any mistakes you may find in this chapter.

It took several days for John to get over the initial weirdness of his encounter with Sherlock, but after a long and rather cringeworthy conversation in which Sherlock ensured him there was nothing to feel awkward about, John was able to get past it. However, what few boundaries that had existed between the two of them has seemingly been done away with, and it wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to parade around the flat in nothing but a robe, or on his particularly immodest days, a towel wrapped loosely around his narrow hips. As a result, John spent more time at Mary's, and though she seemed quite chuffed to have him around more, each time John saw her she seemed to be less and less happy to see him. Eventually it got to the point where a thick tension had grown between them, and John decided to address it one night while they were sat on her couch watching some dreadfully tacky romantic comedy. He could feel how tense Mary was with his arm around his shoulder, and when he'd decided that he couldn't ignore the elephant in the room any longer, he turned to her and spoke.

"Mary, I know something's been troubling you for a while now." She said nothing and kept her eyes trained on the television screen. "Mary..." 

"It's nothing." If her tone of voice wasn't enough indication that her statement was a lie, the look in her eyes certainly would have made it obvious. John tightened his grip on her shoulder and leaned in closer, nuzzling her ear with his nose and making her giggle as she batted him away. 

"Come on, tell me," he said, his voice soft and his eyes searching hers. Eventually she sighed and dropped her head.

"Well," she said with her eyes downcast, "It's just..." She took in a deep breath and finally met John's eyes. "I'm starting to feel like the other woman, John." It was then that John had muted the television and turned to face her, furrowing his brow as he watched her chewing on her bottom lip.

"What?" 

"Well, you and Sherlock-" John gave a derisive snort and shook his head, pulling away from her slightly. He could tell where this conversation was going and he would be having none of it. For his girlfriend to even think that he would... 

John shook his head. The very idea of it was preposterous.

"Mary, I'm not even gay. I'm..." John had started to tell her he was completely straight, but a few 'experimental' years of his youth prevented him from doing so. Still, that had been years ago and his curiosity had been satiated then. At least, that's what he always told himself. Even if it hadn't been, and even if he did get the occasional longing for the feel of a firm, flat chest pressed against his own and the light hint of stubble brushing across his jaw during a warm embrace or perhaps a passionate kiss, he was with Mary now, and he was fine with that.

"There's nothing going on between me and Sherlock." Mary sighed and shook her head slowly, staring down at the floor.

"It sure seems like it is."

"Mary, you're not 'the other woman'... and neither is Sherlock." John added the last few words almost as an afterthought, cringing slightly when he heard how ludicrous it sounded. Mary still seemed unconvinced.

"Think about it, John. I feel like I barely see you anymore and when I do it's for a few hours at most before you're running back home to your little boyfriend." She sighed and turned to face John, tucking her feet beneath her and grabbing John's hand. "Now I know it's been a while since you had a guy friend and I'm glad you've found someone who makes you so happy. I really am, but... I want to make you happy too." John used the hand Mary wasn't currently holding to cup her cheek and gently brushed his thumb along her chin and jaw.

"You do make me happy." Mary sighed and looked away, and John began wracking his brain for something to say that would fix this rift between them. "What do you want me to do?" A moment of silence passed before Mary chuckled quietly to herself.

"Let me watch?" she said, shrugging. She lifted her eyes smiled at John, who laughed and shook his head. 

"You know what, my aunt's birthday is next weekend. How about you come with me to her birthday party?" Mary pulled away from him and practically glared at him.

"You're not serious. You think dragging me to some family member's birthday party will-"

"She lives in Venice..." Suddenly Mary's face lit up and she threw her arms around John's neck, hugging him tightly.

"What present should we get her?"  
___________________________________________________________________

"I still don't see why you're taking her!"

"Sherlock we've been over this before. She's my girlfriend-"

"And I'm your flatmate, which is basically the male equivalent of that!" John pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a slow breath.

"No Sherlock," he said slowly, "the male equivalent of girlfriend would be a boyfriend." Suddenly the angry scowl disappeared from Sherlock's face and a teasing smile took it's place. He sauntered up to John and threw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

"I could be that too, you know." John swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed weakly on Sherlock's side, trying not to think about what Mary had said.

"Stop that, would you?" Sherlock laughed and removed his arm, and John went back to making his breakfast. Moments later John felt a finger lightly running down his spine, causing an involuntary shiver to overtake his body. He felt Sherlock's presence behind him, and felt cool breath on the back of his neck.

"You didn't say no."

"For the last time, Sherlock, I'm not taking you with me to Italy." Sherlock huffed and stormed off into the living room, throwing himself onto the couch and covering his eyes with his arm. John, who was used to Sherlock's angry outbursts by now, simply brought his plate into the living room and placed it on Sherlock's stomach. He gave Sherlock a pointed look, then turned and went back into the kitchen to clean up. He hummed to himself as he worked, and after several minutes Sherlock came into the kitchen with an empty plate. He handed it to John, then hoisted himself up onto the counter and watched John finish washing dishes.

"Seems like someone was hungry," John remarked, smiling up at Sherlock as he dried off his hands. Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I just wanted to finish before you were done in here so I wouldn't have to wash my own plate." John sighed and rolled his eyes, but when he looked at Sherlock he spoke with no irritation in his voice.

"I've always loved your brutal honesty."

"Oh, well in that case-"

"Not now, Sherlock. My cab will be here any minute and I don't want to leave on a bad note." Sherlock stared at him with mock hurt in his face.

"You don't even know what I was going to say!" 

"Doesn't matter. It can wait until I get back." Sherlock's shoulders slumped and he stared forlornly at John, who smiled and ruffled Sherlock's already messy hair. Sherlock moved away and hopped down off the counter to follow John into his bedroom and sat on his bed while John did the last of his packing.

"I could be ready to go in five minutes flat."

"Sherlock, for the last time, I'm not taking you with me to Venice, and that's final." Sherlock threw himself back onto John's bed with an exaggerated sigh, and John pulled himself up to sit beside his feet. "Look," he said, "would you really want to spend an entire week surrounded by my middle aged family members drinking tea and making small talk?" Sherlock quickly sat up and narrowed his eyes at John. Eventually he sighed and rolled off of John's bed to stand up, somehow making the movement look graceful. Then again, almost everything Sherlock did was surrounded in an air of grace and elegance, John thought. Everything except for those slightly-adorable temper tantrums.

"Fair point," he said, casually strolling out of the room. John picked up his suitcases and followed after him. Sherlock was waiting for him at the front door, trying his scarf sound his neck. He smirked at John before grabbing his coat and putting it on.

"Actually, I think I'll start some experiments while you're gone. It's been a while since I've been able to, after getting kicked out of my previous flat and not being able to when living with Mycroft." John smiled at the way Sherlock's face scrunched up at the mention of his brother's name, making it seem as if it were the most volatile thing a person could say. John pulled on his gloves as a slightly-worrisome thought entered his mind.

"You know, you never told me what happened with your last living arrangement. Why did you get kicked out? Was it because of your..." John trailed off, looking down at Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock scoffed, clasping his hands together behind his back.

"No, John. I was not kicked out because of my drug use. And I'll have you know I've been clean for the last three weeks." John tried not to think about the fact that Sherlock had moved in over a month ago and instead gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"So what did happen?" Sherlock took in a deep breath and avoided eye contact, staring at the floor, the ceiling, the kitchen sink and anything except for John.

"That's a story for another day. As of right now, I've got some shopping to do as soon as you leave."

"Shopping for what?"

"You remember the week after I moved in you told me to make myself at home. Tu casa es mi casa, si?" John sighed and rolled his eyes, but couldn't stop himself from chuckling. Sherlock smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "I think I'll finally take you up on that offer." John sighed and pressed his palm to his forehead.

"I'm starting to think letting you into my home wasn't such a good idea."

"Oh, it was probably the worst thing your ever done." There was a moment's pause before Sherlock spoke again. "Do you regret it?"

"Not one bit." Sherlock's eyes cautiously met John's and he smiled shyly. John returned the gesture and turned around, opening the door. He reached down and picked up his suitcases, and Sherlock followed him out to the cab. John threw his bags inside the vehicle and turned to face Sherlock, who had his hands shoved into his coat pockets and was staring down at the ground with a frown on his face. John took a step closer and placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Hey," he said softly. Sherlock lifted his gaze only slightly, and John felt a tugging at his heart strings when he saw the despondent look on Sherlock's face. "It'll only be for a week, alright? I'll be back before you have time to miss me." Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking down again.

"I doubt that." Sherlock sighed, then in one swift movement he engulfed John into a tight embrace, burying his face in the crook of John's neck as he snaked his arms around he shorter man's waist. John hesitated for only a moment before he brought his arms up and looped them around Sherlock's neck and pulled him closer. Though the hug was rather fleeting, the tingling feeling it had left John with was anything but. Even as he was sat beside Mary on the airplane with her head on his shoulder, he could still feel the way Sherlock's slender fingers had trailed along his sides when they had parted.

Later that night as John lay awake in bed, beside Mary who was sleeping soundly, he couldn't stop himself from wondering what Sherlock was doing, and if he was playing his violin, or if he had already started on one of his experiments. John carefully slid out of bed and began pacing in an effort to to tire himself out so he could go to sleep. He was startled by a quiet buzzing sound he heard, and after several seconds he realized it was his phone sitting on the night table. He quickly grabbed the device and held it to his ear without checking the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"John? Why are you whispering?" John could feel his entire body relax when he heard Sherlock's voice on the other line. 

"I'm whispering because Mary's asleep and I don't want to wake her."

"Oh are you to sharing a room? Sleeping in the same bed? How scandalous!" John could practically hear the smirk in Sherlock's voice.

"Shut up." He began pacing again and kept his phone pressed firmly against his cheek. "Why are you calling so late?"

"Well I um... I can't find the, uh..." John heard him sigh, then take in a deep breath. "Where do we keep the extra pillows? This couch is killing my back tonight." John sat back down on the bed, suddenly feeling much sleepier. 

"There aren't any. Just sleep in my bed." He could hear Sherlock's gasp, and tried not to laugh. "Try not to sound too excited." Sherlock chuckled, and John's shoulders shook as he laughed silently. "You know, for a second there I was thinking you called because you missed me." When he didn't receive a reply John suddenly panicked, thinking he had somehow said something inappropriate. "I mean-"

"Relax John, I was just focusing on not dropping my violin or blankets while carrying them into your room."

"Oh." John's mind drifted to thoughts of Sherlock and his violin, and how he had gotten so used to hearing it each night, and sighed.

"You know, this might sound crazy but... I can't seem to be able to fall asleep without hearing that bloody violin of yours."

"Oh really?" John could hear the faint sounds of shuffling, then silence, followed by the mellifluous sound that only Sherlock's violin could produce. It was the last thing John remembered hearing before falling asleep.


	10. Say Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, all mistakes are my own and I apologize in advance for them. Thanks for reading!

When John opened the door to his flat, he was greeted with the surprising, yet pleasant aroma of apples and the sound of a violin playing. The tune was light and airy, and somehow managed to put John's already relaxed mind even more at ease. He stepped further into the living room and found Sherlock perched on the sofa, swaying from side to side as he coaxed the beautiful melody from his instrument. He lifted his eyes to meet John's and smiled, standing from his seat to saunter over to where John was standing. John noticed the intricate way his feet moved, almost as if he were dancing his way over to him, and he marveled at the fact that Sherlock didn't miss a beat of the song he was playing. John placed his bags on the floor and took off his coat, then turned to close the door just as Sherlock finished playing his piece. He lowered the violin and gave a small bow, and John presented him with as much applause as one person could produce. The corner of Sherlock's lips quirked upwards and he laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did so. John smiled back, then walked past him and collapsed onto the sofa where Sherlock had been sitting.

"I quite like that one," he said, "What's it called?"

"Erm, Welcome Home John." John turned to raise a confused eyebrow at Sherlock and grinned.

"Yeah, thanks. But what's that piece called?" Sherlock walked over and set the violin down on the coffee table, avoiding eye contact.

"That's the title. 'Welcome Home John'. I composed it specifically for this occasion."

"What occasion?"

"Your coming home." John sat up a little bit straighter and stared at Sherlock, feeling a warm flush spread across his cheeks. He saw that Sherlock's face was equally as red, but he didn't seem bothered by it as he smiled over at John. "Do you like it?" His face looked hopeful, almost as if he were a young boy asking his mother to put his latest masterpiece on the fridge, and John couldn't help but laugh while he nodded his head.

"Of course. It's my new favourite song." Sherlock nodded his head, then bit his lip and looked down. If John hadn't been living with Sherlock for the past month and a half he wouldn't have picked up on the minute change in Sherlock's disposition, but he managed to see the shifting of his eyes and the way his fingers tapped nervously on his legs when he sat down beside John. "Is everything alright, Sherlock? You seem a bit-"

"Hold that thought John. I think the apple crumble is ready." John was just opening his mouth to ask Sherlock what he was talking about, but was cut off by the sound of a timer beeping. Sherlock gave him a cheeky smile before practically leaping off of the sofa and shuffling into the kitchen. John watched him from where he was sat, wondering what on earth had happened to his flatmate while he was gone. Perhaps he had begun experimenting with some mind-altering chemicals other than the ones he'd already become accustomed to. He stood up slowly and went into the kitchen to see Sherlock bent over in front of the oven, and just happened to notice that his exceptionally tight trousers left very little to the imagination. 

John caught himself staring and managed to look away before Sherlock stood up straight and turned to face him. He held up the dessert with an overexcited smile, then placed it on the counter and turned off the oven. The delicious, warm aroma of freshly baked apples overtook John's senses, and he found himself licking his lips as he started down at the dessert.

"You made that?" he asked Sherlock, pointing at the dish and raising a single eyebrow at the man. Sherlock huffed indignantly and nodded.

"Of course I did, John. I don't-"

"Relax, Sherlock. No need to get your feathers all ruffled." Sherlock sighed but smiled, and pulled out two plates and forks from the dishwasher. John saw Sherlock's eyes glance briefly at the clock on the stove before he set about preparing two plates. He handed one to John, then they made their way over to the table and sat down. John told Sherlock about his time in Venice, ignoring the way his eyes continually drifted towards the clock on the stove during their conversation. Sherlock told John about the cases he'd solved and the few experiments he'd actually conducted, and though John could barely follow along with what Sherlock was saying he still smiled and nodded at what he hoped were appropriate times. 

When they finished, Sherlock offered to wash their dishes while John put away what was left over. John placed the apple crumble in the fridge, and turned to watch Sherlock as he scrubbed furiously at the soapy china, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He let his eyes roam from Sherlock's face down to his rolled up shirt sleeves and large hands that were now covered in soap and water. He allowed himself one fleeting glance at Sherlock's dress pants before his eyes settled on his sock-covered feet. From the looks of it, Sherlock was wearing silk socks. John chuckled to himself. Of course Sherlock Holmes would wear silk socks. His underwear was probably silk as well.  


Suddenly Sherlock shifted and John lifted his eyes to see that Sherlock was now staring at him with a quirked eyebrow and an amused smile on his face.

"See anything you like, John?" he asked, his voice practically dripping with what John could only label as heavy flirtation. He cleared his throat and avoided eye contact, gesturing down at Sherlock's feet.

"Yeah, um, I mean... nice socks." Sherlock smiled, and checked the time on the stove clock for what had to be the tenth time that afternoon. "Everything alright, Sherlock?" 

"Hm?" Sherlock continued to avoid eye contact as he washed their plates and pretended not to have heard John, though he could tell by the forced look of impassivity on his face that he had. He sighed and crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. "Sherlock..." Sherlock placed the dishes in the dish drainer with a resounding clang, and hurried out of the kitchen. John followed after him, and when he entered the living room Sherlock was straightening up the stacks of magazines on the coffee table. He sat down in the armchair across from the sofa, and gestured for John to sit on the sofa, which he did. Sherlock steepled his fingers together and rested them beneath his chin as he stared at John.

"I have an announcement." John placed his hands on the side of his own face and pretended to be shocked.

"Oh my god, are you pregnant?"

"How did you know?" Sherlock joked back, eyes crinkling slightly. John attempted to smile back, but the growing feeling of apprehension in his stomach prevented him from producing anything genuine. If Sherlock noticed this, which he most likely did, he didn't give any indication that he did, and John was grateful for this. After a brief moment Sherlock cleared his throat and leaned back in his seat, crossing one long leg over the other as he did so. John in turn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at Sherlock. 

"So, what's the announcement then?" Sherlock gave a long, quiet sigh and stared at something on the ceiling for several seconds before meeting John's curious gaze, and offered a small smile.

"I've found a place to live." John blinked several times, struggling to comprehend what Sherlock had just said.

"What?"

"While you were in Venice I went looking for a flat, and I've found one. On Baker Street. It's not very far from here so-"

"You're moving out?" John didn't even try to hide the disappointment in his voice. Sherlock seemed almost pleased at John's obvious distress, and an ambivalent smile touched his lips. He nodded his head slowly.

"I am." John let out a breath and sat back in his seat, trying to understand why this recent development was so upsetting to him. He tried to tell himself it was just because he had gotten so used to having Sherlock around, and he wasn't a fan of change. However, some other part of him, some part hidden deep down, told him it was more than that. He didn't dwell on this for long, and instead put on a brave face, even smiling as he looked to Sherlock.

"Well, that's great. When are you moving?" John tried not to focus on the momentary flash of hurt that appeared on Sherlock's face before he answered.

"I started packing two days ago, both here and at my brother's. I've already gotten some stuff moved in, but I should be done within the week." 

They sat in a slightly uncomfortable silence for several minutes, and John's own thoughts combined with Sherlock's penetrating stare soon became suffocating so he made an excuse to leave, claiming to be in need of tea when really he was in need of something completely different. However, tea was something simple and obtainable, so he decided to focus on that. He busied himself by concentrating too much on making his tea perfect, and when he heard Sherlock playing his violin in the next room he nearly lost it. It wasn't exactly a realization, because he'd known it for what felt like forever. It was more of an acceptance of what he'd been feeling for a while now. He didn't want Sherlock to leave.

Sherlock leaving meant he would never hear the sweet sound of that beautiful instrument as he fell asleep at night. It meant he would never wake up to the sight of Sherlock asleep on his couch or sitting in his kitchen, his fingers steepled together under his chin, somewhere deep inside his Mind Palace, as he called it. He would no longer need to make two cups of coffee in the morning, two cups of tea in the afternoon, and enough food for two people every evening: He would only be cooking for one. He would be alone again.

"Did you happen to make enough for two?" came the overfamiliar voice from what should have been way too close, but to John wasn't exactly close enough. John's personal space bubble was usually quite large, but Sherlock somehow managed to constantly pop it without John caring in the slightest, and so far had been the only person capable of such a feat. Perhaps it was a perk of them living together, John figured. He wondered if it would go away once Sherlock moved out.

He poured two cups, and handed one to Sherlock without looking at him. He went in the living room and sat on the sofa, turning on the television and fixating his eyes on the screen. He heard Sherlock enter and he'd felt the dip in the sofa cushion when he'd sat down, but John still kept his eyes on the TV screen.

"John?" John took a sip of his tea and angled his head towards Sherlock, but still didn't look at him. "John, are... Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?" Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock shrug.

"I don't know. It just seems like, you're upset that I'm leaving."

"Why would I be upset? This is a good thing, you moving. It means you're back on your feet and trust yourself enough to live alone. It means you can support yourself. What is there for me to be upset about?" 

"Right." The tone of Sherlock's voice caused John to finally look at him, and when he did, he wished he hadn't. Sherlock looked downright cross, as well as hurt. It was almost as if he were upset that John was taking his news so well, or at least pretending to. John couldn't understand why- oh!  


"I mean, I sure will miss you," he said, shrugging. Though he wasn't looking directly at his face John could see Sherlock smile. "This is for the best though, isn't it?" When he finally did look at Sherlock's face he wasn't smiling, and John felt as if by his trying so hard to say the right thing, he had somehow royally screwed up. Sherlock placed his tea cup down on the coffee table so hard some of the tea sloshed out, and stood up. John watched from the sofa as he hastily made his way to the door and grabbed his scarf. He placed his cup beside Sherlock's and stood up, taking several cautious steps towards Sherlock, who was now forcefully putting on his coat, a deep scowl on his face.

"Did... Did I say something wrong?" Sherlock's nose scrunched up and he shook his head.

"No, no. It's just... I'm late for a meeting with my new landlady." Sherlock practically spat out the final words of his sentence, as if he were spitting out poison, and John felt as if he had actually been spat at. With his brow furrowed he watched as Sherlock unlocked the front door and yanked it open, stomping out onto the street. John stood in the open doorway and watched him stalk away. When he'd gotten to the end of the block Sherlock turned around, and though John couldn't see his face clearly he was certain Sherlock was glaring at him.

"Don't bother waiting up!" he called out. "I might end up spending the night at my flat!" And with that Sherlock disappeared around the corner, his billowing out behind him as he went.


	11. Make A Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all mistakes are my own and I apologize in advance for them.  
> Thanks for reading!

John's footsteps fell heavy on the pavement, and his heart felt equally so as he stared up at the building in front of him. 221B Baker Street, current residence of Sherlock Holmes and the bane of John Watson's existence. As he stood beside Mary with his hands in his pockets, eyes fixated on the wooden door, he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming anxiety building up inside of him. He hadn't seen Sherlock in nearly a week, and though he was still mostly blaming himself for it, he couldn't help but feel a strange sort of animosity towards the inanimate dwelling place he stood in front of.

"Come on John, the party's inside," Mary said as she stepped in front of him and rang the doorbell. They were greeted by a woman who John guessed was Sherlock's landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and were ushered inside.

"Welcome, welcome," she said. "Everyone's upstairs."

"Thank you." John took Mary's hand in his and led her up the stairs into Sherlock's flat. He took a quick glance around the sitting room and caught sight of Molly sitting on the sofa next to Detective Inspector Lestrade, chatting and sipping on glasses of red wine.  
"John!" she called out, standing to cross the room and give him a quick hug. "Glad to see you could make it."

"Are you kidding me?" John said, putting on his best fake-smile. "I wouldn't dare miss Sherlock's housewarming party." They shared a quick laugh, and John took another look around. "Speaking of Sherlock, where is that consulting detective?"

"He's right here, John." Sherlock stepped out into the living room with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were cold and calculating, and suddenly John began to feel like an experiment of Sherlock's would under his scrutinizing gaze. He offered a friendly smile, hoping to show Sherlock there were no hard feelings, though he was still a bit upset. Sherlock didn't smile back, but John saw his eyes soften before he nodded his head in silent acknowledgement and went back into the kitchen. John followed after him, as did Mary, and she set about pouring two glasses of wine, handing one out to John.

"Oh no thank you," he said. "I don't really like red wine." Sherlock pointed to a bottle sitting on a nearby counter.

"That Sauvignon Blanc is for you." He cast his eyes sideways at the glass in Mary's hand. "I knew you didn't like red wine so I went out and bought it yesterday." Sherlock took the glass from Mary's hand and took a sip, breaking eye contact with John as he turned to pick up an empty glass from the table. He held it out towards John, who took it wordlessly and went to fill it up. By the time he'd poured his glass and closed the bottle both Sherlock and Mary had ventured out into the living room. John could see Sherlock standing at the window, his back to the kitchen. John went to stand beside him and stared down at the busy street below.

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper. Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, but made no other indication that he'd heard him. Still, John took that one glance to be enough incentive to continue. "Are we... okay?"

"What do you mean, John?" Sherlock's voice was as cold as it had ever been, and it stung. John took a sip of his wine and shrugged it off.

"I mean, the last time we spoke you seemed a bit-"

"I'm fine." Sherlock turned around and leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms and looking over to John. "Perfectly fine." John knew Sherlock was lying, but rather than cause a scene in front of Molly, Mary, and Lestrade, John pretended to believe Sherlock and gave him a small smile before taking another sip of his wine. 

"You know," he said after a few minutes. "I have missed that violin playing of yours."

"Say no more." Sherlock gave him a tight-lipped smile, then went into his bedroom, most likely to retrieve the instrument. John turned and went to sit beside Molly on the couch. Mary was in the restroom and Lestrade was sat on the other side of Molly. He nodded in John's direction when he sat down, and Molly gave him a smile.

"Where's he run off to?" she asked, pointing in the general direction of the kitchen and Sherlock's bedroom.

"To get his violin." Molly's eyes lit up and John thought he saw her blush. Perhaps he wasn't the only fan of Sherlock's violin playing. He cleared his throat and pretended not to see the look on her face. "So, Molly... whatever happened with that friend of yours you were always telling me about? I've been meaning to ask you but-"

"What friend?" Molly and Lestrade asked at the same time. John eyed them both strangely before settling his gaze on Molly. "You remember that guy you used to always tell me about. The one who-"

"Oh, I know who you're talking about," Molly said quietly, staring down at her empty wine glass. Lestrade reached over and took it from her, and she offered a grateful smile. Lestrade stood and went into the kitchen, and John turned to face Molly.

"So...?"

"John, you must know the friend I was talking about is Sherlock." John suddenly felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room and he and Molly were trapped in some sort of airless, timeless vortex. He'd always assumed Molly and her friend were romantically involved, with the way she talked about him, but Sherlock had never mentioned...

"You and Sherlock?" Molly's eyes widened to twice their size and she shook her head vigorously.

"Oh, no, not like that. We're just friends. Like I said." She glanced over towards the kitchen, as if making sure the coast was clear before sharing some top-secret information. She turned back to John and lowered her voice. "When we first met, I'll admit I quite fancied him, and for a while I entertained the notion that he liked me too, but he didn't, and now I don't." John brought his hand up to his chin and stroked it thoughtfully.

"I see." He shrugged. "I suppose I understand why you thought that. He is quite the flirt, isn't he?"

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" Molly asked, flabbergasted. She leaned away from John and stared at him like he'd just grown a third head. "I don't know where you got that idea from."

"Well he-" John was cut off by the sound of footsteps approaching, and almost as if on cue Sherlock appeared, holding his violin and smiling at the two of them. John took a sip of his wine, but found it hard to swallow around the lump that had appeared in his throat.

Sherlock played several songs on his violin, the five of them talked and played board games and, save for one ruined stack of Monopoly cards, the rest of the evening passed rather pleasantly. John and Molly didn't talk about Sherlock, and when it came time for everyone to leave Molly had given him a look that said they would be talking about him again, soon. It gave John an uncomfortable feeling.

He decided to hang around a bit longer after everyone left, and so he found himself leaning against Sherlock's kitchen counter, finishing off his last glass of wine for the night, while Sherlock washed everyone else's glasses. When John finished he handed it to Sherlock, who glared at him, but washed it anyway.

"So, Sherlock," John said when Sherlock started drying the glass. "When are you going to tell me what happened with your last living arrangement?" Sherlock sighed and shrugged, then turned to face John, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.

"I suppose now's as good a time as any. It was nothing really. My landlord and I had a bit of a row that got blown way out of proportion."

"And by 'had a row' you mean-"

"I might have called him a pretentious arsehole and..." John stepped closer to Sherlock and stared up at him eagerly. "I may have insinuated that his wife was an adulteress."

"Sherlock!"

"Well she was!" Sherlock unfolded his arms and started pacing back and forth. "She propositioned me a great number of times, and anyone who would do that obviously has loose morals." John shrugged and took another step towards Sherlock.

"I don't know about that. Maybe she propositioned you because you're..." John looked away and trailed off, wondering how inappropriate it would be to tell Sherlock just how attractive he was. It was obvious to anyone that Sherlock was gorgeous; John would have to be an idiot to deny it. But, he'd never allowed himself to think such things about the man who used to be his flatmate. Perhaps now, with his inhibitions loosened by the alcohol currently in his system, John felt comfortable enough to reach out and place a hand on Sherlock's bicep as he looked up at him. Sherlock merely stared back, his face expressionless but his eyes showing a vast array of emotions.

"I'm...what?"

"Well, you're quite..." John let out a deep sigh and looked down, shaking his head. "Oh, hell, Sherlock. Surely you know how attractive you are." John ignored the way Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and continued his praise. "You're absolutely stunning, and brilliant. You're so clever, and you..." John's eyes met Sherlock's, and he suddenly lost the ability to speak. Sherlock's pupils had been blown wide, nearly encompassing the entirety of his irises. His mouth was hanging open slightly, and John swore he'd never seen a more beautiful face than Sherlock's in that very moment. His eyes dropped down to his perfect, cupid's bow lips and his grip on Sherlock's arm tightened. Sherlock brought a trembling hand up to grip John's shoulder, his grey eyes searching John's for something unknown.

"John?" It was that moment when John's final glass of wine managed to kick in and all his inhibitions suddenly went out the window. He reached up and placed a warm hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him down until their lips met.

The kiss started out slow, but soon turned feverish, with teeth clashing and tongues dancing, and hands roaming everywhere. Exploring, cataloguing, and simply feeling. John felt himself being roughly pressed against something hard, but the pain in his back didn't quite register. He let himself be kissed by Sherlock, let himself be devoured by the man he'd tried so hard to fight his feelings for, and the dizziness in his mind only increased with each second that passed with Sherlock's hands on his hips. John felt like every inch of his skin was on fire, and he loved every minute of it. He never wanted it to stop, he never wanted to stop kissing Sherlock, but they had to come up for air eventually. 

Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's and they stared into each other's eyes for a moment, both trying to catch their breath while their minds caught up with what they'd just done. John's mind never fully quite caught up, and he was glad for that because he knew that if for one second his mind cleared enough to actually realize what he was doing, he would have turned and left Sherlock's flat without ever looking back. Instead, he grabbed Sherlock's hands and began dragging him down the hallway to his bedroom. He kicked the door closed with his foot and pushed Sherlock against it. 

The look in Sherlock's eyes was a mix of confusion and elation, but most of all lust. If John had thought he was gorgeous before, he looked absolutely ravishing now, with his face flushed and lips swollen from kissing. His tongue darted out and swiped along his bottom lip, tasting where John had been, and he frowned.

"We can't do this." John frowned back, but didn't pull away.

"Why not?"

"You're drunk." John blew a raspberry and shrugged.

"I'm not that drunk." Sherlock placed his hands on John's arms and held him at arm's length. John struggled to get closer to him, reaching out to bury his hands in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock sucked in a breath and closed his eyes before letting out a quiet and slightly surprised sounding 'oh', and John grinned, thinking that the small gasps Sherlock gave were more amatory than anything he'd ever heard before in his life.

"Y-You're not thinking clearly." Sherlock cleared his throat. His argument was losing intensity with each tug John gave on his hair. "You'll... regret this in the morning." John gave a sharp tug on Sherlock's hair and brought their faces close together, giving is best attempt at a Sherlockian smirk.

"Why don't you let me find that out for myself?" Sherlock's eyes dipped down before he sighed and shook his head, though John noticed he didn't try to pull away.

"I'll call you a taxi."

"I'm not going home. Not when you're not there." Sherlock sighed and dropped his head. John absentmindedly played with his curls while he waited for Sherlock to just give up on convincing John that this wasn't something they should do. At this point it seemed more like he was trying to convince himself, and that didn't seem to be going very well either.

"Well," he finally said, lifting his head to stare into John's eyes, "If you want to stay over this flat has two bedrooms." John responded by giving Sherlock a hard kiss on the lips, then kissing his chin and working his way up Sherlock's jaw until his lips were beside his ear.

"I don't think we'll be needing two."


	12. Aftershocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning: mentions of adult activities ahead. Don't worry, there is nothing graphic, just some kinda hinted at smut. Proceed with very little caution.
> 
> As always, all mistakes are my own and I apologize in advance for any you may find. Thanks for reading!

John woke to the sound of raindrops hitting glass. With his eyes still closed the rest of his senses were heightened, and every drop sounded ten times louder than normal. With a quiet sigh he turned his head to bury his face into his pillow, inhaling the sweet smell of expensive shampoo.

Something wasn't right. John's own pillows never smelled like this. Except after Sherlock had slept in his bed while John was away in Venice.

Sherlock.

John's eyes flew open and he looked around. All he could see was a wall. A blank wall that was not his bedroom wall. Still a bit groggy, John wasn't in a hurry to get up, and continued to lie on his side for several moments, attempting to gather his thoughts. Then he noticed a warm figure pressed against his back, an arm draped around his middle, and a large hand splayed out on his bare chest. He wasn't alone.

John struggled to look over his shoulder, and what he saw caused his breath to catch in the back of his throat. Sherlock was sleeping soundly behind him, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, completely silent. He looked beautiful.

"What the hell..." John muttered, wiping at his eyes with one hand. Sherlock stirred, and John froze, not yet prepared for what would happen next. His mind began running through various scenarios in which Sherlock opens his eyes, sees John laying shirtless in his bed, and everything goes downhill from there. John begins preparing himself for whatever choice words Sherlock would have for him, for invading his personal space in such a way, and for- Sherlock stirs again, and stifles a yawn. John can't help but marvel at how Sherlock even makes waking up seem like the most graceful activity in the world. His eyes open slowly, meet with John's, then close again. "Good morning John." His voice was groggy with sleep, and deeper than it usually was, and it sent John's sleep-dazed mind into a tizzy. Sherlock removed his arm and sat up. John sat up as well, and when he felt a strange ache in his bottom he winced slightly. With his eyes wide he turned to Sherlock, who just shrugged and looked away, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

"I warned you."

___________________________________________________________

_John rolled off of Sherlock and fell onto his back. He heard Sherlock's heavy breathing, and turned his head to see Sherlock staring up at the ceiling, a dazed expression on his face._

_"You look utterly debauched," John remarked, reaching over to lightly stroke Sherlock's jaw with his fingertips. Sherlock gave a quiet hum in response and closed his eyes._

_"Hm, yes, well... you would too if you'd just been..." Sherlock weakly waved a hand in the air, the gesture taking the place of the words he wouldn't say. John watched him curiously, his mind slowly beginning to formulate an idea as a new wave of arousal began building in his stomach._

_"Does it really feel that good?" he asked. Sherlock turned his head and looked at him, a wicked smile growing on his face._

_"Oh,_ god _yes." Sherlock must have seen the look of interest that flashed across John's face, for his smile grew to twice its original size. "Would you like to find out?" John didn't hesitate before nodding his head, and before he knew what was going on Sherlock had climbed on top of him and was kissing him thoroughly, hands caressing the sides of John's face as he did so. He pulled back only a fraction to look into John's eyes, silently asking for reassurance, for permission, for confirmation, and John gave it to him with a single nod of the head. Sherlock nodded back, then began trailing a finger down the centre of John's chest. "Warning though, you might be a bit sore in the morning."_

______________________________________________________ _______

John slowly leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, ignoring the pain of his stretch and letting out a shaky breath. The events of the previous night were starting to come back to him, and it was not good. The memory of skin against skin was both titillating and terrifying, and John wasn't sure how to react. All signs pointed to one thing only, and John could already feel the panic beginning to set in.

"Oh god," he said. "Oh... _god_. Oh _my god!_ " He slowly lifted the sheet, revealing the last bit of confirmation of what had happened. Both he and Sherlock were stark naked. This was very not good. John scrambled off of the bed, trying very hard not to show any discomfort, and began pacing pack and forth in front of the bed not caring that the entirety of his body was on display before Sherlock. From what he remembered he had no reason to be shy around Sherlock anymore.

"John?" The close proximity of Sherlock's voice actually managed to startle John for once, but somehow the feeling of a warm hand on his exposed lower back didn't. Despite everything in John's mind telling him to pull away he remained still. Sherlock moved his hand from John's back to his shoulder, and gave it a quick squeeze before he turned and walked away. John tried and failed not to stare at Sherlock's naked form as he strolled out of the room.

Now that he was left with only himself and his thoughts for company, John allowed himself to freak out just a tad. Though his memory was fuzzy he could remember a great deal of what had transpired the night before. He remembered a pair of bow shaped lips pressed roughly against his own, a pair of sinewy arms wrapped around him, nails digging into the skin of his back, and teeth nibbling at his neck, jaw, and collarbone. Sure enough, when he looked at himself in the mirror hanging on Sherlock's bedroom wall he saw that his torso was covered in scratches and bruises. It was visual, tactile evidence of John's infidelity and he could feel his hands trembling as he raked them through his shortly-cropped hair.

In all his life John had prided himself on his loyalty to his partners or significant others. Even when he was younger and much more foolish than he was now, he'd always known how far was too far, and was able to stop himself before things got to that point. Over then span of his lifetime John had had seventeen girlfriends, and he'd been one hundred percent faithful to them all. Even Carlie Maples who had cheated on him multiple times in very public ways. John still hadn't forgiven himself for staying with her for more than two months.

And yet here he was, several months into his relationship with Mary, whom he loved very much, and he's just slept with his former flatmate, who also just happens to be another man. John doesn't even want to think about the fact that he's cheated on Mary with Sherlock Holmes of all people, who he may or may not actually have romantic feelings for as well. John had yet to allow himself to come to that conclusion, to figure out if it was more than a physical attraction he'd felt towards the man, because if so he wasn't ready to face that emotional aspect of their affair. So he didn't focus on the memory of Sherlock's arms around him, holding him close. He didn't think about the way Sherlock's usually harsh voice had sounded whispering sweet nothings in his ear as they lay together afterwards, and he ignored the way his heart skipped a beat when he felt a pair of long, slender arms wrap around his waist from behind and a pair of soft lips place a kiss on his shoulder.

"Um, Sherlock?" he managed to say, his voice brittle and wavering. Sherlock must have noticed the strange waver in John's voice, but his response was only to hold John tighter, rather than release him, which was what he'd been hoping Sherlock would do. Still, John remained put and didn't try to escape Sherlock's hold, because as much as he hated to admit it, it felt really nice.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock's lips brushed against John's right ear as he spoke, and the feeling of his cool breath running down his neck made John's skin break out into goose flesh. He mustered up what little bit of his self control remained and stepped away from Sherlock, hanging his head so he wouldn't see Sherlock's expression in the mirror. "Is everything okay?"

No, John thought, everything was far from okay. He didn't say anything out loud though, and instead remained silent. Sherlock either mistook his silence as a 'yes' or didn't care enough to ask again, and John could hear him sit down on his bed. John turned away from the mirror and set about picking up the articles of clothing that had been thrown haphazardly onto the floor the previous night. He threw what belonged to Sherlock onto the bed, and pulled on his pants, jeans, and jumper when he found them.

"Where are my shoes?" he asked, trying hard to keep his voice flat. He looked in Sherlock's direction, but didn't meet his eyes. Sherlock finally seemed to realize something was off, and that something not good had happened. He stood up and immediately pulled on a blue silk house coat and started looking around the room. John dropped down onto his hands and knees; Perhaps they had been kicked underneath the bed some time during their hasty undressing.

"Wait no don't-"

John caught sight of a wooden box sitting underneath the bed before he sat back on his haunches and looked up at Sherlock. His eyes were wide and he looked absolutely terrified, and that terrified John. One of Sherlock's hands was outstretched, and his mouth was still hanging open slightly. When John's eyes met his, and he saw the genuine fear and distress in his eyes he frowned.

"What?" Sherlock's mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out. John's eyes wandered back to the space underneath the bed, then back to Sherlock, who was looking more and more like a thief caught red handed with each passing second. Without another word, John reached underneath the bed and pulled out the box. He held it up and raised his eyebrows.

"What's this?" Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself and crossed his arms, glaring at John.

"Nothing of your concern, that's for sure." John placed the box onto the bed and stood up. Sherlock took a step backwards and crossed his arms, sticking his bottom lip out in a childish display of defiance. John pulled himself up to sit on Sherlock's bed and placed the box beside him. Sherlock eyed him warily from his place in the doorway, and when John reached over to flip open the latch on the box he rushed over to snatch it up, holding it close to himself as a mother ape might do with her baby. John noticed the sleeves of his house coat had drifted away from his wrists, and took the opportunity to reach out and grab Sherlock by the arm, being careful not to pull to hard for fear of the 'sacred' box falling. Sherlock sighed and let John examine his arm, and wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Really, Sherlock? You're back on-"

"Leave me alone."

"But Sherlock-"

"It's just stress relief, okay? Some people have yoga, others like to read by the fire, and I have my own... methods." Sherlock held up the box and shook it angrily, and John ran a hand over his face. He saw his phone lying on the ground several metres away and grabbed it, checking the time and cursing quietly when he realized he was supposed to have been at work a half hour ago.

"Shit, shit, _shit!_ " He dropped back down to the floor and began searching around for his shoes, while Sherlock left the room, most likely to hide his box. John didn't say anything when he came back into the room and sat on his bed, because he was too busy looking for his shoes so he could get to work. After less than a minute John noticed a pair of large hands holding out his two shoes, and he took them wordlessly and finished getting dressed. He paused in the doorway and turned back to Sherlock.

"Look, I've got to go to work now, but I will be back, and we will talk." He started to go out the door, but paused to look over his shoulder at a guilty-looking Sherlock. "And you better be lucid."

John left without another word, and twenty minutes later he was sprinting through the halls of St. Bart's on his way to check in. He nearly bowled over Molly, who was coming out of the break room, when he looked down to read the text from Mary that said she was bringing him some work clothes, but didn't stop to apologize. He saved that for after he'd signed in and received a stern talking to from Dr. Wright. Molly had stood silently and listened as he apologized, and it wasn't until after he had finished talking that John noticed the disgusted look she had on her face.

"What is it?" Molly took a step forward and lowered her voice to a scarily quiet volume.

"I can smell him on you."

"I-"

"I know you stayed after everyone else left, you're late, your hair is all disheveled, as is the rest of you, you're wearing the same outfit you wore yesterday, and you _smell like him_." John opened his mouth to respond, but Molly raised her hand and brought it harshly across John's cheek. "How could you do that to Mary?!"

John found himself trying to find the words to say, trying to think of _something_ to say, and not finding anything. And if things weren't going horribly enough, Mary just happened to show up at the precise moment Molly had slapped John and was now looking back and forth between them with a worried and confused look on her face.

"Do what to Mary?"


	13. A Poor Attempt At Damage Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I own nothing and all mistakes are my own. Thank you to everyone who's reading!  
> Sorry about the angst and choice language that lies ahead.

"So you see, I ended up staying at Sherlock's a bit longer after everyone had gone, you know that. We just talked for a while about nothing in particular, and then..." John crossed his arms and looked to Mary, who was listening with wide eyes and Molly, whose face was incredibly stoic. He could feel a twisting in his stomach, as if his innards had picked that precise moment to go for the knot tying championship. As he looked to Mary's open, enraptured face and Molly's accusing stare, John found that he just couldn't tell them the truth. He instead said the first thing that came to mind. "Then Sherlock got called out to help with a case, and I went with him. It was pretty dangerous, and we got banged up pretty bad, but everything was taken care of and we ended up returning to Baker Street." The words had begun to pour out, and John wasn't doing a thing to stop them. "I ended up crashing at his place. He offered me the use of his bed for the night." John cast a furtive glance over at Molly. "I forgot to set my alarm so I woke up late and didn't have time to go home and change before coming into work."

John let out a breath and stared back and forth between Molly and Mary, gauging their faces as they digested the massive lie he'd just told them. From the looks of it, they both seemed to believe him, and though he felt relieved at this, John felt equally as disgusted with himself for what he'd done and now said to cover up his lecherous actions. He didn't deserve the warm smile Mary gave him, or the hug he received when she left, claiming to be 'so glad' he and Sherlock were okay. He didn't deserve the contrite look he got from Molly when he turned to leave and go change. He couldn't bear to stick around to hear the undeserved apology she tried to give him.

Unfortunately John was unable to stay away from Molly for very long, due to the fact that she was working a shift there as well. He tried his hardest to avoid her and the apologetic glances she gave him every time he passed. By the time he clocked out for the day John was mentally exhausted, as well as physically from some very close calls with Molly in which he'd basically run away from her. Once to get away from her he'd ducked into the nearest room and ended up attending a lecture on various cardiovascular diseases and possible preventions, and then ended up giving a speech at said lecture. He still wasn't quite sure how that had happened, though it had been a much-needed distraction from his worries.

Unfortunately, there had been no distractions to be found in the back of a cab on his way back to Baker Street, so by the time John reached the door his mind was incredibly frazzled and his heart was pounding. His hand was shaking as he brought it up to ring the doorbell, and he held his breath until he heard the door unlock.

Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at John, and he tried his hardest to smile back and not let it show how distressed he was. He stood silently and listened to the woman chatter about the weather and her new cat for several minutes, then made an excuse to go ahead upstairs. He was there to see Sherlock, after all. He opened the door to Sherlock's flat and looked around, finding it to be empty. He held his breath and listened for any signs of life coming from further upstairs or Sherlock's bedroom, but didn't hear anything. He ventured through the kitchen and down the hallway, pausing at Sherlock's bedroom door and placing his ear against it. He heard nothing, but still knocked before he went inside.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but John could see the wooden box sitting on his bed. The latch had been unhooked, but the box was still closed. John wasn't exactly sure how to proceed, so he stood in the middle of Sherlock's room for several minutes looking around, trying not to think about the last 24 hours or so, and definitely not looking at the neatly-made bed and remembering what had taken place in it the night before.

"Oh, you're back."

The sound of Sherlock's voice caused John to turn around, and he saw him standing in the doorway, dressed in his signature long coat and scarf, hands shoved into his pockets. He jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen, and left. John followed him out into the sitting room and they sat across from each other at the desk in the centre of the room. The tension in the air was thick, and it nearly suffocated John as he sat there with his hands folded in his lap, struggling to maintain eye contact with Sherlock.

"Alright," Sherlock finally said on the exhale of a sigh. "I haven't got all day. You said you wanted to talk, so talk." John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, but sighed and nodded his head.

"Well, first off: what's in that box?"

"I'm pretty sure you've figured it out. You're not an idiot John." Sherlock started to stand from his seat. "I'm making tea."

"You're going to sit right there." Sherlock froze, glaring intensely at John, but didn't move. "Why, Sherlock? What happened to get you back on it?" Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and stared out the window.

"If I'm going to be honest here I should tell you I was never off it." John stared at him with his mouth hanging open, trying to comprehend what Sherlock had said.

"So, the entire time you were living with me-"

"Yep," Sherlock said, popping the p. He finally turned to look at John, his face completely expressionless. His eyes locked with John's and he heaved a heavy sigh. "Don't look at me like that. I told you I don't need your judgment."

'I'm not judging you."

"You're lying!"

"Please, keep your voice down."

"Or what, John? It's obvious you disapprove and though I can't blame you I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't look at me like I'm some puppy whose just chewed up your favourite pair of shoes." John ignored Sherlock's strange metaphor and sat back in his seat, letting out a low sigh.

"I have to tell your brother."

"He knows." Sherlock brought his hands to rest on the table and tilted his head. "Honestly John, it's not a problem."

"Not a problem? What- Sherlock!" John took a moment to calm himself down before he said or did something he'd later come to regret. He stared at Sherlock and they remained silent for several moments. Finally, Sherlock dropped his gaze and stared down at the table. 

"I'm... sorry John." John's eyebrows nearly shot up to his hairline and he stared at Sherlock with his mouth open. 

"Sorry for what exactly?"

"For lying to you I suppose. I should have told you and I understand that." He slowly lifted his eyes to meet John's and the look on his face caused John physical pain. "I hope this doesn't make you rethink your decision."

"What decision?" Suddenly Sherlock's eyes were much sharper and his face was voice was cold again, his face completely devoid of emotion. 

"Your decision to leave Mary."

"What?" John asked incredulously, leaning further back in his chair. The room was suddenly much hotter and John felt as if his face was on fire. He had no idea just what was coming next in this conversation, but he knew it would not be good. The thought of how badly this could go caused hot tears to sting the backs of his eyes, the weight of his soul crushing guilt becoming too much to bear. "Sherlock, where did you get that idea?" John couldn't help but notice the brief look of hurt and confusion that crossed over Sherlock's pale eyes.

"Well, last night..." He didn't finish his sentence, and John covered his face with his hands. "John?" Sherlock's voice was softer now, and very distant. John could feel the stifled uncertainty emanating from Sherlock's being more and more with each second that ticked by. "John, there were tears in her eyes as she hugged- hugged, not kissed- you goodbye yesterday. Before that you two had a long chat in private and though I was not eavesdropping I heard what she said before she left. She said, 'I assume you'll be staying here for a bit then', and you said 'yes, of course'." Sherlock's voice broke on the last word of his sentence, and John felt every ounce of his morality shatter.

"She- She has allergies. Her eyes are always watering now. She had a family issue to attend to, and that's why she left and I didn't. Well, that and I just wasn't ready to leave yet."

"John, I don't understand. You didn't break up with her?" John couldn't bring himself to meet Sherlock's eyes and stared at the table, whispering his answer to the polished wood.

"No."

"Then what the hell, John?!"

"I-"

"You've turned me into some god forsaken home wrecker!"

"There's no wrecked home." Sherlock sat back in his seat with a huff and licked his lips, staring up at the ceiling and shrugging.

"Oh, so she's completely fine with the fact that her boyfriend fucked another man."

"No, she... She doesn't know." John bit his lip and shook his head, already hating himself for what he was about to say. "If anyone asks, we were out on a case last night." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up and he stared dumbfounded at John.

"You mean you want me to lie?"

"No, just..." John ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Forget it. Just, forget about... everything. Last night didn't happen. Just forget about it."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, John. I'm only human, and-"

"That's all I'm asking you to be. Every human makes mistakes-"

"You think it was a mistake?" John could hear the rage in Sherlock' voice, and instantly wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. "Last night was the best night of my life, John, and I'm afraid it would be impossible to delete from my memory even if I wanted to."

"Sherlock you don't understand..." John sighed and leaned forward, pressing the heels of his hand to his eyes. When all of Sherlock's words finally registered he removed his hands, but kept his eyes cast downward. "Best night of your life?" John carefully looked up, but Sherlock turned his head just as their eyes would have met. "Sherlock-"

"Forget I said that. Since your so very keen on forgetting now, I'm sure it won't be hard."

"But Sherlock, you don't really mean that do you?" Sherlock's eyes instantly snapped to John's, and they were full of disbelief, anger, and anguish, and John couldn't bear it to look into them.

"Of course I mean it John, but that doesn't matter. So what if last night was spectacular and everything I'd ever dreamed of. Who cares if I somehow managed to develop romantic feelings towards you during the course of our... association despite my inability to do so ever before, and last night just happened to be the best thing to happen to me in years. So what if the very thought of you returning to that woman after what we did is making me sick to my stomach. None of that matters right? Because to you it was just a mistake and it'll be okay because we'll all just forget about it, right?" John had sat silently and listened to Sherlock as he became more and more livid with each word he spoke, and though he knew it would do no good he tried to defend himself.

"Sherlock, we were drunk."

"You were slightly intoxicated. I was sober."

"Sherlock-"

"I think you should go."

"Why?" 

"Why?" Sherlock huffed and sputtered before he was able to form a coherent sentence. "Because I refuse to be your Bertha Rochester!"

"My what?"

"I will not be the lunatic that you once cared for but are now ashamed to have ever looked upon with a fond eye."

"You're not a lunatic." It was the only thing John could think of to say. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, forcefully pushing back his seat to stand up.

"Oh, pardon me, would drug addict be a more appropriate term?" He stalked over to the door and unlocked it, staring down at the floor. "Either way, consider Thornfield burned. Your future with your precious Jane will be safe." He opened the door, and John stared out at the landing, knowing what Sherlock was asking him to do and refusing to leave.

"Sherlock, you're not making sense."

"Read Jane Eyre and you'll understand." He took in a deep breath and steeled himself before looking directly into John's eyes. "As for now, get out of my flat." 

"Sherlock, please-" Sherlock stormed over to where John was sitting and yanked him up out of his chair by his collar before pushing him towards the door.

"Out. Now." John sighed and tried to get Sherlock to look at him, but his gaze remained rooted to the floor. John took one long look at what he could see of his profile, of his perfect, cupid's bow lips pressed into a firm line, his beautiful multicoloured eyes now red and shining, and his smooth, pale skin now flushed with anger and most likely a slew of other emotions. He looked absolutely wrecked, and John knew he was the reason for it all. He had never hated himself more than he had in that moment.

"Sher-" He broke off, taking a moment to clear his throat and take in an adequate breath. "I'm so sorry." He sucked in a breath and placed his hands in his pockets. "Please, do try and get clean, at least."

Sherlock growled and gave him another shove, hard enough to get him over the threshold but not hard enough to send him flying down the stairs, and slammed the door before John had the time to regain his balance. His feet felt like lead as they carried him down the stairs and out of the building, and John suddenly felt as if the weight of the world had been placed upon his shoulders. That could have gone better, he supposed, though he wasn't exactly sure how. He certainly didn't see how it could have gone worse.


	14. Bury My Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I feel I've got to say something before you read the chapter: this is not the end, okay? There are a couple chapters left, and this story will have a happy Johnlock ending. Just, please keep that in mind while reading this monster of a chapter. :)

The first thing John had done when he left Sherlock was head to the nearest bookstore to purchase a copy of Jane Eyre. He took it everywhere with him. He read it during his downtime at work, he read it when enjoying the few lie ins he was able to have, and he read it in the evening as he sat alone at his dinner table, wishing that a certain consulting detective was sitting across from him, and knowing that would most likely never happen. Sherlock had made it painfully clear that he wanted nothing to do with John by not answering his phone or answering the door when he went to see him for the past month. The last time he'd visited Baker Street his landlady had said she hadn't seen him in over a week. John didn't see him at St. Bart's, where he used to see Sherlock all the time. He still didn't know why Sherlock spent so much time in that hospital, and probably would never know now. Sherlock was out of his life, and as much as it hurt, John knew he would just have to accept it. It was his own fault after all, for letting his guard down and taking Sherlock to bed when he knew he was still with Mary, and possibly breaking Sherlock's heart in the process. John hadn't realized it then, but when he'd seen the look in Sherlock's eyes that day, he'd somehow managed to break his own heart as well.

Truth be told he had considered several times ending it with Mary, because the guilt had become unbearable, and because he wasn't so sure he really picked her over Sherlock. If Sherlock hadn't kicked John out of his flat on Baker Street that day, who knows what would have happened. John knew for certain that if Mary hadn't been in the picture things would be very different. He would no doubt be with Sherlock, he knew that now. He had come to accept the fact that he did in fact have very strong feelings for Sherlock, possibly stronger than what he felt for Mary, but it had been too late. It simply hadn't been their time, and now their time would probably never come. Still, John stayed with Mary, and every time he felt bad about Sherlock he took Mary on a date. If he couldn't have Sherlock in his life, he would stick to the next best thing. John felt disgusted with himself, and his dignity was at an all time low, but he pressed on, putting on a charade of contentment everywhere he went.

John read Jane Eyre slowly, somehow thinking that as long as he had the book unfinished, he wasn't finished with Sherlock. Still, he wanted desperately to know what it was that Sherlock had meant when he said he was burning down Thornfield, even though he'd had a bit of an idea by now. One night, on what John would have called a 'danger night' if he had those sort of things, he sat down on his sofa with his book and decided he was going to read it to the end. He didn't get to the end.

As soon as he got to the part where Thornfield burns down he sprang from his seat and put on his coat. His heart was pounding and beads of sweat formed on his brow as he sprinted down the street. Baker Street wasn't too far away and he didn't want to spend time tracking down a cab to only be stuck in traffic. People gave him strange looks as he pushed past them, but all John could think about was that damn book.

Sherlock referred to himself as Bertha Rochester, the crazy wife of Edward Rochester, who burns down their home, then leaps to her death from the top of the flaming building. Though John was still incredibly confused, he knew now that what Sherlock had told him was certainly not good. Nothing involving fire and a suicide could be good.

When John reached 221B Baker Street he was out of breath, but he wasted no time in pounding on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it for him.

"Hello John, what-"

"Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Not for weeks." John didn't stick around to hear what else she had to say before storming up the stairs and knocking on Sherlock's door. Nothing. He opened the door and took a look around the eerily quiet flat, and noticed that seemingly nothing had changed since the last time he'd been there. The only thing missing was Sherlock. Where was he? John's heart was pounding furiously against his rib cage as he went back downstairs and rudely dismissed Mrs. Hudson before leaving. He would have to come back and apologize later; Right now he needed to get to Scotland Yard.

Luckily he was recognized by several of the workers, from all the times he'd come in with Sherlock, and was able to make it to Lestrade's office without any difficulty. He knocked hard on the door and waited for it to open. When it did John pushed past Lestrade and began pacing back and forth in the office.

"John? What are you doing here?"

"I think something's happened to Sherlock."

"What?"

John took a moment to decide on how much he should tell the man, and ultimately deciding that he could get through this conversation without any mention of his and Sherlock's... involvement with each other. He told Lestrade that the last time he and Sherlock spoke they'd had an argument, and that Sherlock had referenced Jane Eyre.

"Isn't that the book with the orphan girl who falls in love with the guy who has that crazy wife?" John nodded his head, wondering how everyone seemed to know about this book but him. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"At the end of the book, the crazy wife burns down Thornfield, Mr. Rochester's home, and kills herself by jumping to her death. Sherlock referred to himself as Mrs. Rochester." Almost instantly Lestrade straightened up and his eyes went hard.

"No, you don't think-"

"There's been no fire. His flat is as it always has been, except he isn't there. I haven't seen him in over a month, and his landlady hasn't seen him either. Please tell me he's been secretly working on cases for you or something."

"I'm afraid not." Lestrade sighed heavily and ran his hands over his face. "I think I'm going to get a search party rounded up. We'll comb through all of England to find him if we have to."

"That's really nice that you're so concerned." Lestrade just shrugged and pulled out his phone.

"Yeah, well, I've known him for years and he's been a great help since he started working on cases. I'd hate for something to have happened to him or worse, for him to have done something stupid to himself." John nodded his head curtly and turned to leave, pausing when he reached the door.

"Erm, is there some way I could possibly help? If there's anything you need..."

"I'm not sure yet. I've got your number. How about I get back to you after making a few calls." John nodded his head and sighed. "Don't worry John, I'm sure he's just gone on some sort of extended holiday or something. He's the type to do that, isn't he?"

"I wouldn't know," John said, shrugging. Lestrade gave him a look of disbelief as he began dialing a number on his phone. John avoided eye contact and waved to Lestrade before turning and leaving his office. He went straight home and spent the next half hour pacing, until his phone rang. It had to be Lestrade. John practically dove onto his couch to retrieve the device.

"Hello?"

"John, it's Greg."

"Greg Lestrade? What have you found out? Has anyone seen him? Is-"

"I'm afraid all I can say is we've got police forces all over England looking for Sherlock Holmes... and even a few in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. If he's anywhere in the United Kingdom, we'll find him."

"I sure hope so. How can I help?" John could hear him sigh on the other end of the line.

"There's not really much to do," he said. "All I can ask is that you stay calm during all this, and hope for the best. If I have any questions I think you could answer or if there's any sort of development I'll be sure to call you." John hung up and tossed his phone to the floor, not caring that it disappeared beneath his sofa. With stiff legs he made his way to his kitchen and got a bottle of wine. It was going to be a long night.

___________________________________________________________

Two weeks passed without any sign of Sherlock, or any progression his missing person's case. By now it seemed that all of England knew about the vanished detective, and despite all the volunteer searching being done, no one was able to locate them. John had remained admirably stoic throughout the whole ordeal, excluding a couple incidents about a week after the search had begun. The first time he'd been at Mary's, pretending to watch the movie she'd bought for them, when he noticed a violin in the background, and he'd lost it. They agreed to never talk about it. The last thing John wanted to think about was how he'd clung to her like a lost child, soaking the front of her shirt in hot tears. That was something he could go the rest of his life without thinking about. Several days later when he'd found a shirt Sherlock had left behind, buried deep in the back of his closet, it was all he could think about as he curled himself into a fetal position, shutting his eyes tightly and trying to shut out the world. It was the first time John had ever had a panic attack, and he'd had to face it alone.

When Lestrade came knocking on John's door one evening, John was a complete wreck. He hadn't been to work in a week, claiming to be ill, when he really just didn't want to leave home. He hadn't eaten in days, and the only time he could get any rest was when he tired himself out by crying, which didn't happen often. He knew he must have looked terrible, and the look on Lestrade's face when John opened the door was just proof of it. Still, he tried his best to smile as he motioned for him to come inside.

John closed the door, then turned to face Lestrade, and felt all the heat drain from his face when he saw the man's solemn expression.

"We uh, we found him." John tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, already feeling the tears welling up.

"And?" Lestrade broke eye contact and bit his lip, obviously distressed. John began shaking his head. "No..."

"There was a body found at the bottom of a cliff near Sussex. Male, about 6 feet tall, with curly dark hair. Now, the face was a bit..." He sighed. and shook his head. "Poor chap must have fallen on his face, onto those rocks..." John brought his hands up to cover his mouth, still shaking his head. Lestrade gave him a look of pity and his shoulders sagged. "Anyway, despite the unrecognizability of the face, his brother was able to identify the body this morning. I'm sorry John, I know you two were close." John just nodded his head. "The uh, funeral's next week. They've asked that you speak." John nodded his head again, staring down at the floor, not bothering to ask who 'they' were. Lestrade sighed and placed a hand on John's shoulder. "I'm really sorry." He let himself out, and the moment the door clicked shut John's knees gave out and he dropped to the floor.  
So that was it, he thought. He'd driven Sherlock to suicide, apparently. His best friend, the man he'd somehow fallen for, had in turn fallen for him, now in two completely different ways, and now John would never get the chance to apologize, to tell Sherlock that if he only asked once more he would have been his. John could feel tears streaming down his cheeks, but he knew this wasn't a panic attack on the horizon. This was grief, a manifestation of his sorrow, of his guilt, of the pain of having someone so close to you just suddenly ripped away. If this was anything close to how Sherlock had felt, John understood why he had thrown himself off of that cliff.

___________________________________________________________

The day of Sherlock's funeral John sat in the front row, beside Sherlock's brother Mycroft, and gave the eulogy at the end of the service. He kept it brief, and had managed to hold back the tears until he sat back down. He didn't bother trying to hold back the tears when the coffin was lowered into the ground. Afterwards, when everyone was heading back to their cars, John was approached by Mycroft.

"That was a very touching eulogy you gave." John didn't know how to answer, so he just shrugged. "Believe me John, he's in a better place now." John bit his lip and nodded, refusing to cry in front of Sherlock's brother. "I know you loved him." Instantly John's eyes snapped up to meet Mycrof't's cold ones.

"Well, um, I mean, yeah. We were... He was my best friend." Mycroft leaned in closer so that his lips were right beside John's ear.

"That's not what I meant." He'd then turned and walked away, leaving behind a gaping and grieving John.

___________________________________________________________

Less than a month after the funeral John and Mary moved in together. Mary had suggested it one day and John, not really paying attention, had agreed. A week later he found himself curled up with Mary on her couch, tired after just having moved all the contents of his previous flat to either Mary's house or his storage unit. His eyes were on the screen but his mind was elsewhere, as was per usual nearly every night. He'd tried so hard to move on, but he couldn't get over Sherlock. He was still very much in pain, but Mary had been fantastic support for him, and for that he decided that he would never leave her, no matter how much he wanted to. Mary was good for him, and she seemed to still enjoy his company, so it just made sense.

Mary noticed the distant look in John's eyes, and gave him a sympathetic pat on the knee.

"You're thinking about him aren't you?" John nodded his head. "Do you want to talk?" John thought for a moment, then looked down into Mary's shining green eyes and decided that yes, he would be perfectly fine with waking up to see them every morning. He sighed.

"I just... I miss him."

"I know you do."

"He was my best friend."

"I know, John."

"I'd always wondered who my best man would be at my wedding, you know. And for so long I thought it'd be him."

"Oh, well..." John turned to face Mary, pulling away from her enough to clearly see all of her face. She looked concerned, but anxious and possibly even excited. John tried his best to smile at her.

"And you know, even though he won't be there... hopefully I'll still have you up at the altar with me." Mary's eyes grew slightly in size and her jaw dropped.

"John, is this some sort of proposal?" John licked his lip and shrugged, nodding his head.

"Um, yeah. It is." John reached into his pocket, pulling out the box he'd been concealing all day, and tears sprang to Mary's eyes before she threw her arms around John's neck. He wrapped his arms around her and held her closely, trying his best to be happy at her enthusiastic reaction.

"Yes, John." She managed to choke out. "Oh, god, yes."


	15. Return To You

_** Sherlock's POV ** _

When Sherlock heard the news of John and Mary's engagement, from Mycroft of all people, he'd been laying prostrate in his bed, trying not to suffocate with his face pressed against the mattress, buried in the pristine white sheets. The last of his withdrawal symptoms had come and gone a while ago, but he still had cravings and he was still miserable. His mind felt as if it were tearing itself to pieces, and he now had nothing to appease it. He'd known rehab wouldn't be easy, but he was pushing through it, for John's sake.

John.

He immediately pushed himself up and narrowed his eyes at his brother, who was sitting in a chair beside his bed.

"What do you mean he's getting _married_?" he snarled. Mycroft just sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm certain you know what the word marriage implies." Sherlock glared fiercely at his brother and made to stand from the bed. Mycroft raised a hand to still him, and he remained seated despite his defiant nature. "Trust me Sherlock, this is for the best."

"What do you mean best? I'm miserable here!"

"But you're clean." Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, yes, we can all celebrate later. As for now, I need to get back to London."

"Sherlock you can't just leave-"

"I checked myself in here, I can check myself out!"

"You're being irrational. Letting your emotions get the better of you." Sherlock gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to reach out and deck his brother. Ever since Mycroft had found out that his little brother actually had feelings and had managed to fall in love with his only friend, he'd never given him the chance to forget it. Mycroft wielded Sherlock's feelings over him like he believed being heartless somehow made him superior. Sherlock could tell by the look on his face that was exactly what he was thinking. He took in a deep breath to calm himself down, and placed his hands in his lap, staring down at them as he counted to ten.

"I need to see John," he finally said once he trusted himself to keep his voice level under control. He heard Mycroft shift in his seat, and heard the heavy sigh he gave before speaking.

"I would advise you not to return to him."

"Why not?"

"He's currently in mourning." Sherlock felt a pang of sympathy in his chest for John. Only once had Sherlock truly ever been in mourning, and though it had been long ago he still felt the pain as if it were a fresh memory.

"I can help comfort him." Mycroft sighed and let his chin fall down to his chest. He sighed heavily, as if about to admit something terrible. Mycroft then looked up, and when Sherlock saw the infinitesimal hint of guilt in his eyes he felt his stomach drop.

"Sherlock, he's mourning you."

"Why on Earth would he be doing that? I'm not dead!"

"He thinks you are."

"Well why-"

"You disappeared, Sherlock! No one heard from you for over a month. Apparently John got worried and went to Scotland Yard, and then nearly every police force in the United Kingdom had a search party looking for you." Sherlock sat and listened to Mycroft tell him the tragic tale of what had happened, and when he was finished Sherlock sat in a stunned silence for several moments.

"Why didn't you say something? You knew where I was!"

"Trust me, Sherlock-"

"You lost my trust the moment you identified that body as mine, knowing good and well it was not me." Sherlock flopped back onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, a crease forming between his brows. "Anyway, I told John where I was going."

"Are you sure about that? He seemed pretty convinced you had left his life completely."

"But, I sent him a letter. I specifically told Jim to give him my letter to John Watson."

"Jim?" Sherlock sighed heavily and nodded his head.

"Yes, there was this guy I'd met through Molly, who worked in IT. He said he knew John, so I told him to give John a letter for me. This was about a week after we'd had that argument. The day before I hopped on a plane to come here." He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I told him everything in that letter." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Everything?" Sherlock sighed and nodded his head.

"Everything. I poured my heart out on that paper like a teenage girl."

"You're not serious."

'Of course not." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed for dramatic affect. "I did tell him that I would honour his last wish for me.. I told him I would get clean, and when I was I would come back to him." Sherlock shut his eyes tightly and covered his face with his hands. "I don't understand how this went so wrong."

"Perhaps Mr. Watson never received the letter." Sherlock groaned as the realization finally dawning on him. He mentally kicked himself for not figuring it out sooner, before Mycroft had. He felt his heart rate increasing and he practically growled as he sat back up.

"I swear, I am going back to London this very instant and I am going to murder that Jim."

"I don't think that will be possible, brother dear." Sherlock whirled his head around to glare at Mycroft, who was staring down at his phone.

"Why not?"

"There is no person working in IT as St. Bart's named Jim, or anything that might be shortened to that. There hasn't been for years."

"Well that's just great." Mycroft began tapping away furiously on his phone. "I assume you'll be getting right on that situation."

"I won't personally, but I will have some people look into it for you." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but thanked his brother. He didn't really need a stranger out there with information about his drug habits and affair with John. If anything, he didn't want to ruin John's life if word were to get out about them. Especially if he actually did want to stay with Mary, though Sherlock was beginning to entertain the idea that John had not chosen Mary over him, but rather stayed with her thinking that Sherlock was no longer an option. One could only hope.

Suddenly his head snapped up and he turned to Mycroft.

"When's the wedding?"

"Two days." Sherlock's jaw dropped and he stared at Mycroft for several seconds. Then Sherlock stood up from his bed and stalked over to the wardrobe in his room. He threw it open and grabbed the first shirt and trousers he saw. He threw them onto his bed, not caring that they would get slightly wrinkled, and turned to Mycroft. "Get out."

"Sherlock what are you-" Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged out of the dressing gown he'd been wearing. "Sherlock!" He ignored his brother and continued to undress. When he made to remove his shirt Mycroft stood from his seat and went to the door. "I'll be right outside."

Sherlock ignored him and continued changing. Several minutes later he was smoothing down his shirt and trying to get a decent look at his outfit without the use of a mirror. There was a knock at the door before it opened ant Mycroft stuck his head inside.

"Good, you're decent." Sherlock glared at him, but he was unfazed. "Sherlock, I can see what it is you want to do, but I must advise you against it."

"Oh Mycroft, when have I ever listened to your advice?"

"Sherlock, you're in a much better place here, without him."

"And who are you to decide that for me?" Sherlock grabbed a pair of shoes and hastily put them on. Mycroft groaned and gave him the look he'd given often when they were younger. His 'I'm-your-older-brother-so-I-automatically-know-what's-best look. It was a look Sherlock absolutely despised, and now it made his skin crawl.

"Sherlock, this isn't-"

"Look, I've been here for months now. I'm pretty sure I'm okay to leave."

"You can't-"

"I checked myself in here, I can damn well check myself out."

"Sherlock your case was quite severe. Prolonged use, and heavy doses each time. You're not okay." Sherlock reached deep inside the wardrobe in his room and pulled out the Belstaff coat he hadn't worn in over a month, sighing as he slid into the familiar garment.

"Yeah, well, I'll be even less okay if I don't get the chance to see John before he gets married." Sherlock avoided eye contact with his brother as he went past him to the door. "I'll be back to pick up my things later."

___________________________________________________________

**_ John's POV _ **

John stood before the mirror and took a look at himself. His eyes were drooping, his worry lines had grown more prominent, and the corners of his mouth were turned perpetually downward. He looked absolutely miserable, and felt miserable as well.

A door opened behind him and he schooled his features into a mask of contentment, possibly even joy, as he turned around. Mike Stamford was poking his head inside, smiling at him.

"Hello there Mister Groom." John motioned for him to come inside, a genuine smile coming onto his face

"Mike! What are you doing here?"

"What do you think?" He asked, holding out his arms so John could appreciate his suit. "Just because we haven't talked in forever you think I'd want to miss out on the happiest day of your life?" John barked out a laugh to cover up the sharp pain Mike's words had evoked in his chest, and the two shared a friendly hug.

"I'm really glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

They chatted for several minutes before Mike left to go find a seat in the church. John, alone once again, allowed his facade to melt away and turned back towards the mirror. Seeing Mike had been great, but now all he could think about was that night when they'd been called to that hotel. The night when he'd met Sherlock Holmes for the second time. He remembered Sherlock explaining the case to him later on, when they had been living together.

It hadn't been a Red Rum case, as Sergeant Donovan had suspected. John laughed when he thought about the way Sherlock's face had scrunched up when he'd mentioned the woman. He remembered the way his stomach had twisted itself into a knot as Sherlock told a tragic story of a love gone wrong, and how husband and wife had met their tragic ends.

The husband, unhappy with the state of their marriage, had gone out seeking a new spark with someone else, and the wife had caught on. She found out about their plans to spend the night at a hotel, and had met them there. What started out as a domestic altercation had become far worse when the wife had brandished a gun and was attacked by her husband's lover with a knife she kept concealed on her person. During the tussle the gun fired, killing the girlfriend, and the husband, devastated by the death of his girlfriend, took the gun from his wife and killed himself. The wife had somehow managed to hide the girlfriend's body in the closet before she collapsed onto the floor, the blood loss finally having caught up with her once the adrenaline wore off.

Oh, love, what a terrible thing. John could surely attest to that.

"John?" He turned away from the mirror to see Greg Lestrade standing at the door, a concerned look on his face. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." John sniffed, and glanced at his reflection, and saw that his eyes were red rimmed and watery. Great, he was going to look fantastic in the wedding pictures.

Lestrade looked skeptical, but apparently decided not to say anything, and instead informed John that the wedding would be starting soon, and it would be kind of difficult to have a wedding without the groom.

"Right, I'll be right there." Lestrade nodded and went out the room, and John took a moment to steel himself. He sucked in a breath, then reached down and picked up the folded piece of paper that had been sitting before him, leaning against the mirror. It was a program from Sherlock's funeral that he'd kept all this time. There was a picture of Sherlock on the front. That was why he'd kept it; He had no other pictures of Sherlock. He hugged the paper tight to his chest and closed his eyes, sighing.

If only things had been different. If only he hadn't been so stupid, if only he'd told Mary the truth. If only, if only...

It was too late now for regret. The ball had started rolling and it would take a miracle to stop it. John placed the paper down in front of the mirror and let out a shaky breath.

"Oh Sherlock," he said in a hoarse whisper, "I wish she was you."

___________________________________________________________

**_ Sherlock's POV _ **

Sherlock had always hated flying. It was the most tedious method of travel, consisting of nothing other than sky and clouds and a dreadful in-flight movie. This particular flight was made worse by the fact that Sherlock knew John was on the other side of it. At least, he hoped John was on the other side. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd be returning to in London.

It had been only a day since he'd found out John was to be married, and it had been all Sherlock could think about for the past twenty-four hours. John, holding hands with Mary at the front of a church, with all of their friends and family gathered, some crying, others smiling, possibly even some drifting off to sleep depending on whether the service was dull or not.

Sherlock found himself picturing himself in Mary's place. He pictured himself sliding a ring onto John's finger as they stared lovingly into each other's eyes, and his heart ached. He wondered if he would ever have that for real, and hoped desperately that he would.

The plane soon landed and from that moment on everything seemed to blur together in Sherlock's usually precise memory. He decided to blame the jet-lag. He _had_ just flown from California to London, after all.

He remembered hailing a taxi outside the airport, and telling the cabbie that the sooner he got them to the church the more money he'd get. He remembered getting caught in heavy traffic, caused by a terrible accident, and practically leaping from the car so he could run past it all, hailing another cab once he got to the outskirts of town.

Following the directions Mycroft had texted him, Sherlock made it to the church, though unfortunately the service had already started, and Sherlock found himself with his ear pressed against the church door, heart pounding as he waited for the priest to say the words that would warrant his entrance.

"Is there anyone here who believes that this couple should not be wed, speak now or-"

Sherlock didn't even wait for the priest to finish speaking. He calmly opened the door, and ignored the shocked looks on everyone's faces as he walked up the centre aisle, his eyes remaining locked with John's.

"I do."


	16. Happily Ever After

John stood speechless with his mouth hanging open as he stared at the man standing less than two feet away from him. This had to be a dream. Some sort of wild hallucination created by a delirious and despondent mind, but one look around at everyone's faces and he knew he was not alone in seeing this.

Sherlock Holmes was at his wedding.

Sherlock Holmes was interrupting his wedding.

Sherlock Holmes was not dead.

Before Sherlock could even open his mouth to speak, John was storming towards him and had grabbed his hand. Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged to the back of the church, and while neither man looked over his shoulders as they walked John did mutter some sort of apology before he opened the door and forcefully tugged Sherlock outside. He pulled Sherlock along until they were quite a ways away from the church, then finally released his hand and turned to face him. He kept his head angled downward and stared at Sherlock's shoes while his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Sherlock watched with a frown on his face while John began shaking, and it took all of his strength not to reach out and engulf him in a tight embrace.

"John, I-" John held up a hand and silenced him. When he lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's they were red and shining and it was obvious he was holding back tears. Whether they were tears of joy, of anger, or of embarrassment Sherlock couldn't tell. His inability to read John clearly had always been both fascinating and irritating to him. They remained in silence for several moments while John collected himself. Finally, after what felt like an eternity to Sherlock, John looked seemed ready to talk. He opened his mouth again, but the look John gave him caused him to keep quiet.

"Alright," John said, his voice admirably steady, "You've got exactly thirty seconds to explain yourself."

"Before what?" Sherlock asked facetiously, obviously fighting back a laugh. John could feel his blood begin to boil, despite the fact that the sight of Sherlock's smile after having gone so long without it was one of the greatest things John had ever seen. He pressed his lips into a firm line and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, who seemed to finally understand that John's request was serious, and rambled a bit before he was able to form any coherent sentence.

"I tried to contact you, I really did. There was a mix up with a man named Jim. You wouldn't happen to actually know a man named Jim, would you?" John shook his head. "Great, well, that's where everything started to go wrong, and it was all downhill from there. John I know I was upset and our last conversation did not end on a good note but you must believe me when I say it was never my intention to actually disappear or do anything rash." Sherlock took in a much needed breath and prepared to continue, but John held up his hand again and Sherlock remained silent.

"If you're not... dead, then why would your brother-"

"My brother is a complete and total arse who for some reason thought my dying would be the best thing for me. He didn't even have the audacity to tell me what he'd done." Sherlock bit his lip and shook his head. "I don't see him for months and then he shows up out of the blue to say 'John's getting married in two days and oh by the way he thinks you're dead'." By this point John could practically see the smoke spilling from Sherlock's ears as he recalled his most recent conversation with his brother. "I mean, the nerve of him. He's lucky I was able to book a flight in time to get here because I swear if you had married that woman without-" He paused suddenly, his eyes growing wide. John reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He tried not to focus on how long it had been since he'd been able to touch this man, or on the fact that he never thought he'd be able to touch him again, but he felt his grip tighten as he looked up into Sherlock's stormy eyes.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

"This is your wedding day." John shrugged and dropped his hand.

"I'm not so sure there's going to be a wedding."

"Oh god," Sherlock groaned, covering his face with his hands. "What have I done?"

"Sherlock-"

"I've ruined everything! This was supposed to be the happiest day of your life, but I was selfish and insensitive and I've ruined it. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left rehab. I just..." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, and though he continued talking John heard none of what he said.

"You- You left rehab? To come here?" Sherlock met his gaze and nodded his head.

"Yes. You see, John. I've been in a rehabilitory center located in Southern California for the past few months. I checked myself out two days ago upon learning about your engagement and came straight here." He dropped his gaze and shook his head, as if he'd done anything to be ashamed of. John was thoroughly touched at the lengths Sherlock had gone through to get back to John. It was like something out of a romance novel. John could feel a warmth spreading throughout his chest and he smiled at Sherlock, whose eyes were still downcast.

"You went to rehab. You checked yourself in and got clean because I asked you to."

"No."

"No?"

"No, John. I didn't get clean simply because you asked me to. I did it because I thought you would... you might want me if I..." He sighed and shrugged. "I don't know what I was thinking. I'd always been able to remain rational, to not let my heart rule over my head." He kept his eyes trained on the ground and John could see his shoulders sag. "I suppose we all do senseless things when we're in love."

"What- love?" John felt as if he'd been punched in the solar plexus, and the wind had been completely knocked out of him. Sherlock briefly met his eyes before looking away once more and nodding.

"Yes, John. I, Sherlock Holmes, have indeed fallen victim to sentimentality, and I do love you John Watson, very much. I'm sorry, I tried not to... but it's impossible. My love for you is something I cannot delete. I am- mmmph!"

Sherlock was cut off as John grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled him forward into a fervent kiss. Their lips collided and both men felt as if everything around them simply disappeared, and all that mattered was the man in front of him and the pair of lips so forcefully pressed against his own. Sherlock's hands found his way to John's shoulders before he cupped his face and stroked his cheek with his thumb. John sighed into the kiss, and Sherlock took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside John's mouth. It was an intrusion John willingly allowed, and soon he found that he still wasn't close enough to Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around the detective's lean frame and held him as close as he could, silently promising to never let go with every flick of the tongue and playful nip on Sherlock's plump bottom lip.

They separated momentarily to catch their breath, and soon they were back at it. Months of worry, of tension, of grief melted away as John melted into Sherlock's kiss, and when they finally parted he kept his arms around Sherlock, hands clutching at the fabric of his suit while Sherlock's large hands continued to hold John's face only a centimetre from his own. Blue eyes held grey as they took the time to adjust to what they'd just done, realized the magnitude of what had been confessed, and accepted it with a small nod of the head and a chaste kiss.

"Don't be sorry," John said, pulling away from Sherlock a bit reluctantly, "because I love you too."

Sherlock's face instantly lit up and he pressed his lips against John's once more. This kiss was slow and sweet, yet still as passionate as the first had been. This kiss was reassurance, it was the resolution of a battle that had been fought for far too long, and it was the beginning of a new chapter in their lives. John couldn't wait to turn the next page.

"So John, what do we do now?" Sherlock asked after they'd fully caught their breath.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean there's a church full of people who have gathered to see your wedding. I seriously hope you don't intend to go through with your marriage-"

"Of course not," John said quickly, his grip on Sherlock tightening. "How could I?" Sherlock just stared at him, and when John finally realized the seriousness of the situation he let go of Sherlock, bringing a hand up to run through his overly-styled hair. "My god, what are we going to do?" He looked to Sherlock, who was staring down at him with softened eyes and an amused smile on his face. "This isn't funny, Sherlock! Am I just supposed to go back in there and tell them that all of a sudden I don't want to get married because the person I really love has basically just come back from the dead and now there's no one else I could imagine myself being with?"

"Well you could," a female voice said from not too far away. Both John and Sherlock turned their heads to see Mary approaching them, a spurious smile on her face. "But I don't really think that would blow over too well. And I have to admit I would be terribly embarrassed."

"Mary," John sighed and took a step towards her. "I'm really sorry about all this."

"I know you are John."

"I must apologize as well," Sherlock offered, coming to stand beside John. Mary just shrugged.

"I don't blame you for wanting him for yourself. He's a great guy." Sherlock and John shared a pained look. "Don't you two feel bad. John was never mine to have anyways. I only said yes to him because I thought you were dead." She gave Sherlock a pointed look and he stared down at the ground. "As long as Sherlock Holmes is alive and breathing John Watson doesn't belong to me." She smiled at John, but he could see the sadness in her eyes.

"Now, what are we to do with all these people?" John shrugged.

"Tell them that an issue has come up and we have to postpone the wedding. Then, when the time is right, we'll tell everyone that there won't be a wedding." Mary swallowed hard and nodded.

"Alright, but if anyone asks, I dumped you."

"Fine by me." John admired how well Mary was handling this. He knew that if someone had barged into his wedding and stolen Sherlock from him he'd be a complete wreck. Just the thought of him losing Sherlock again was almost enough to bring tears to his eyes.

John felt an arm resting heavily on his shoulder, and sent a grateful look at Sherlock, who simply smiled back. He must have known exactly what John was thinking. John leaned into Sherlock until he could rest his head against his shoulder, and Mary sighed again.

"I must say you two look good together. Now run along, get outta here. I'll go deliver the news." John looked to Sherlock, who simply nodded his head, then began guiding John to the main road. John thought about it, but decided not to look over his shoulder as they made their way from the church.

"So, where exactly are we going? I mean, I imagine I'll have to get my stuff out of Mary's house but I don't really have anywhere to take them."

"Well, lucky for you I happen to know of a vacancy. It's a lovely little place on Baker Street. I'm sure we could afford it together."

"Sherlock, is this your way of asking me to move in with you?"

"Of course. We've been flatmates in the past so we're already accustomed to each other's eccentricities-" John cleared his throat, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Alright, you're already used to my eccentricities and I'm not afraid of you leaving me once you find out that I like to experiment in the kitchen or that I play the violin at odd hours of the night because you've already been exposed to it and you didn't seem to mind then."

"Gee, when you put it like that..." Sherlock sighed, but John could see the smile playing at his lips. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled him closer. "I'd be delighted to move in with you, Mr. Holmes."

___________________________________________________________

The only sound that could be heard in the flat was that of John's typing and the cars speeding by on the street below, so when the front door to 221B Baker Street opened and footsteps began ascending the stairs, John could hear it loud and clear. He was already up and making his way to the door when Sherlock burst through it. His face was tired and his eyes looked equally as so, but they still lit up a bit when Sherlock saw John coming towards him.

John greeted Sherlock with a peck on the lips and stood back to watch as Sherlock removed his coat, hanging it onto the rack beside the door.

"So?" he asked anxiously when Sherlock began taking off his scarf.

"They caught him." John breathed a sigh of relief and could feel his entire body relaxing. Sherlock saw the smile on John's face and smiled in return, obviously glad to see his lover so content. Then again, he was quite relieved as well. Mycroft's men had managed to finally track down the elusive 'Jim from IT', who had apparently been selling Sherlock's secrets to those who claimed to be enemies of the consulting detective under an alias.

Sherlock had to keep from laughing as he thought about the entire situation. Surely this wannabe criminal would have been aware that after two years the information within the letter would be false, but apparently he'd fled the country as soon as he got the letter, planning only to return once he thought Sherlock would have forgotten about it. He told John the entire story as he made them both tea, and John had laughed.

"Well, I'm just glad that's all over now," he commented, handing Sherlock his cup.

"Indeed." Sherlock followed John out into the sitting room and they took up residence at the desk in the centre of the room. "So, did anything interesting happen while I was gone?" Sherlock knew nothing had, but he asked anyway. It was another attempt at 'chatting', which, though he'd told John he would never try again, he he had decided he would master. Small talk was an art form, after all, and Sherlock had always been gifted in the arts department.

"Actually, I got an email from Mary." Sherlock's entire body tensed, and John saw it even from across the table.

"Oh?" Sherlock took a sip of his tea and pretended to be nonchalant, but John could see right through his facade.

"Sherlock, before you go freaking yourself out, she wasn't trying to win me back. Not like she could anyway." He saw the slight relaxing of Sherlock's face and smiled. "In fact, it seemed she only wrote me to tell me she's moved on. She's gotten engaged again, to a man she met at work." John pulled the email back up so he could re-read it and relay its contents to Sherlock. "She said in about a month she'll no longer be a Morstan, but rather a Moran, and actually thanked us both for breaking her heart."

"She thanked us?"

"Yes, Sherlock, us. It was a joint effort. If you hadn't interrupted our wedding and if I hadn't chosen you over her that day she said she never would have met this Sebastian guy, and she says she's never been happier."

"Oh." Sherlock stood from his chair and walked around the table to peer at the screen. He rested his chin on John's shoulder, and he could feel Sherlock's hair tickling his ear. John pointed to a sentence embedded in the body of Mary's email.

"That's a nice quote she's got there," he said." It says 'One day someone will come into your life, and make you realize why it never worked out with anyone before." He could feel Sherlock turn his head, and then the feeling of soft, full lips pressed against his cheek. His deep voice rumbled in John's chest, and his breath ghosted across his skin as he spoke.

"No truer words have ever been spoken."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who has read this, commented, bookmarked, subscribed, or left kudos! You guys are all great, and I hope you've liked this. Hopefully this will have been the first of many stories I'll have on here, so until my next story, goodbye!


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